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SICKNESS AS A PROFESSION , 


HOW PRACTICED BY AN EXPERT 


AND 

WHY ABANDONED. 


BY 

n o El : e=l xe. 



EdIOOELE. 



“ The surest road to health, say what we will, 
Is never to suppose we shall be ill. 

Most of the ailments we poor mortals know 
From doctors and imagination flow.” 


7 


JVEIV YORK: PHILLIPS ^ HUNT. 
Cl NCI NN A TI: CRANSTON STOWE. 

1889. 




v/ 

Copyright, 1889, by 
PHILLIPS & HUNT, 
New York. 





PREFACE. 



S in the name of liberty and religion 


the greatest of crimes have been com- 
mitted, so also in the tender name of sickness, 
and in the honored name of medicine, shams 
and frauds, unnamed, unreported, and unnum- 
bered, are daily perpetrated, more or less, 
every-where in society. Without intending 
or really knowing it, men and women have 
transformed robust health into illusory sick- 
ness, made themselves the plagues of their 
neighborhood, and a burden to their friends. 
The fancy notion often expressed in the words, 
“ I am unwell,” or, “ I am sick,” has served as 
a sanctuary of refuge or as a protecting shield 
to thousands of squeamish souls, and it is 
seldom that either friend or doctor can be 
found bold enough to tell them what they 
know to be their real condition. 

Whilst cherishing the highest respect for 
the medical profession, and the tenderest sym- 
pathy for all persons who really need medical 
aid, we have put in form and order a few of 
the multitude of facts which have come to our 


4 


Preface. 


knowledge in regard to well-known skam sick- 
nesses, with the intention of lifting the veil 
which hides from the public gaze one of the 
weak and pestiferous phases of human life. 
We have aimed to treat the subject on the high 
plane of Christian sympathy and kindness, 
though the temptation to use the pen of the 
satirist has frequently assailed us. 

If grievously misunderstood in what is 
written, we shall not be surprised. The ire 
of some doctors may be kindled ; parties we 
desire to benefit will become angry ; the 
schools of “ mind cure ” and “ faith cure ” will 
claim us as belonging to them,, and we shall 
also be charged with hard-heartedness, if not 
blasphemy, in laying sacrilegious hands upon 
sickness, the creature of divine Providence; 
but knowing our own motives for writing we 
shall care for none of these things. 

Our story has led us through all the varied 
forms of social and domestic life, and yet we 
have found nowhere a beaten track. With a 
sacred regard to the best interests of society, 
we expose to the pitying gaze of the world 
our heroine of the sick-bed, with the hope 
that some may learn by her experience to 
avoid her example. The Author, 

St. Petersburg, Pa. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I. The Heroine of our Story Introduced 7 

II. Susan the Subject of Earnest Counsel 22 

III. Susan’s Parentage and Childhood 35 

IV. Susan at School 46 

V. Susan as a Wife and Mother 60 

VI. Susan on the Wane 70 

VII. Susan Intensifies her Miseries 86 

VIII. Susan Tempest- tossed 100 

IX. Susan the Victim of her Husband’s Strategy ill 

X. Susan Jubilant at a Party 120 

XL Susan Herself Once More 129 

XIL Susan a Widow 140 

XIII. Susan Visited by the Lazars 152 

XIV. Susan among the Breakers 165 

XV. A Change in the Air 179 

XVI. Two Fields Fought in one Day 192 

XVII. Mrs. Quinby Emerging from Her Troubles 204 

XVII 1. Susan Queen of Her Household 216 

XIX. Susan at the Quarterly Meeting 228 

XX. Charles in the Hour of Victory 239 

XXL Susan on a Visit to her Daughter 251 

XXIL Mrs. Quinby the Sage and Philosopher 263 

XXIII. The Last Change 276 


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SICKNESS AS A PROFESSION. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HEROINE OF OUR STORY INTRODUCED. 

“ A lady proud — she was of ancient blood, 

Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low, 

She felt or fancied in her fluttering mood 
All the diseases the ’spitals know ; 

And sought all physic which the shops bestow, 

And still new leaches and new drugs would try, 

Her humor ever wavering to and fro ; 

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry. 

Then sudden wax wroth, and all she knew not why.” 

“ Ding, dingle, ding dong ding, dingle, dingle, ding.” 

“ Whoop, ho, halloo, halloo, whoop, halloo ! ” 

Mr. James Quiiibj, a farmer hard at work in his 
corn-field, finding that he could not make his deep, 
bass voice heard at his house because of the din of 
the bell, dropped his hoe, and with a quick step 
started thither in response to its call.. His cozy cot- 
tage stood on a gentle elevation of Jand by the way- 
side, a mile south of the village of Auburn, and the 
premises were made convenient and beautified by 
walks, drive-ways, and a variety of shade-trees. There 


8 Sickness as a Profession. 

were no elegancies such as imply the expenditure 
of surplus funds, but the front lawn, the garden in 
the rear, the fences, and the gates gave evidence of 
industry, taste, and comfort. Two large poplars, 
standing on either side of the front gate, could be 
seen for many miles to the south, west, and north, 
and as sentinels they seemed to stand guard over the 
premises. 

The farm of one hundred and fifty acres attached 
to this dwelling was in a fair state of cultivation, and 
all the outbuildings were kept in good repair. For 
three years Mr. Quinby had labored hard and prac- 
ticed a rigid economy in a vain attempt to reduce a 
debt of four hundred and sixty-nine dollars, incurred 
in the purchase of land, drawing interest at seven per 
cent., which was secured by a mortgage on his place. 
As this season was unusually promising, and the 
markets good, he was putting forth a special effort to 
realize full harvests that a payment might be made 
by Christmas. 

When the bell rang Mr. Quinby was about thirty- 
five rods from the house, and during his walk there 
he was thinking a part of the time of his crops and 
of this debt. 

As he entered the sitting-room, with his bronzed 
face somewhat soiled with dust and sweat, he was 
saluted by Mrs. Quinby as follows: 

“ Dear husband, I am glad you heard the bell and 
came so quickly, as it is about time I took my medi- 


The Heeolne of our Story Introduced. 9 

cine, and I am always much pleased to have you pre- 
pare it.” 

“Why, Mrs. Quinby,” said Dina, the hired girl, 
who desired to stand w^ell as an efficient hand in the 
estimation of Mr. Quinby, “I could have prepared 
your medicine. Mr. Quinby needn’t have quit his 
worh and come in from the field for that.” 

“ O well, Dina, the sick are entitled to attention, 
and who should wait upon a sick wife if not her hus- 
band ? It is now nearly noon, and a half houj* or so 
will make no difference with his work one way or an- 
other.” 

In silence the medicine was prepared and adminis- 
tered, and as Mr. Quinby quietly left the house he 
said to Dina, “ Till dinner is ready I will work in the 
garden.” 

The silence of Mr. Quinby and his leaving the 
house so soon were not at all satisfactory to Mrs. 
Quinby. She had contrived to put some new color- 
ings upon her aches and pains, and had anticipated 
great pleasure in giving him a detailed account of 
them. In fact, a little speech perished for lack of 
delivery, and the poor woman’s heart was made sad 
as it became its grave. She could also see in Mr. 
Quinby’s face an unusual heaviness and rigidity, 
which indicated the presence of a perplexing prob- 
lem. 

Alone in the garden, as new and strange thoughts 
came and went, Mr. Quinby became alarmed at him- 


10 Sickness as a Profession. 

self. During six years his wife had been an invalid, 
and all that time lie had, without asking a question, 
responded to her calls. It now appeared to him to be 
clear that Dina had told the truth — she could hav^e 
prepared the medicine and he continued his labor. 
It was the third time that day and the seventh that 
week that he had been called from the field to the 
house on such like errands. His work had been hur- 
riedly and not well done, and still it was behind the 
season. The half hour he spent in the garden carried 
him a number of times through the following solil- 
oquy : 

“ This year will pass, as others have done, with- 
out a reduction of this debt ; our home may be taken 
from us, and we may be turned into the street — and 
why? All because I am not permitted to attend 
to my business. If these interruptions were neces- 
sary there would be no room for a thought but for 
me to submit and do the best I could ; but the indis- 
putable fact is they are not necessary. Dina could 
have prepared that medicine as well as I. What can 
Ido? Susan is very sensitive. Her enjoyments in 
life consist almost entirely in receiving attention 
from me. Is this really love, or selfishness on her 
part? I had supposed that affection was not only 
self-forgetting, but that it went out and fastened on 
its object ; hers seems to be all-engulfing.” 

At this new and apparently sacrilegious thought Mr. 
Quinby started from his reverie and began to reproach 


The Heroine of our Story Introduced. 11 

himself for his cold, unlmsband-like speculations. Still, 
the question of losing his farm or making an heroic 
attempt to remove the difficulties which were in the 
way of saving it had effected a lodgment in his mind. 
He thought of the quizzical expression which played 
upon the doctor’s lips as he gave him, a few days 
before, the medicine his wife was then taking ; and 
the remark he made, “ I guess this will do as well as 
any thing,” came back with peculiar force. He re- 
solved that, when he went in to dinner, he would test 
at least the strength of that medicine, and at the 
earliest moment have another talk with his wife in 
regard to their business affairs. 

Dina’s call to dinner interrupted these reflections, 
and, passing into the dining-room and finding his wife 
seated at the table, Mr. Quinby said : 

‘‘ Well, Susan, has your medicine taken effect, and 
do you feel better ? ” 

“ O yes, dear. Dr. Simpson understands my case 
exactly, and his medicine always goes right to the 
spot. I am wholly relieved from that awful pain in 
the pit of my stomach.” 

While Dina gave the finishing touches to the table 
Mr. Quinby washed and combed his hair. 

“ Your medicine is so good, Susan, I will try it,” 
said Mr. Quinby. “ It may do me good.” 

“ What ! You sick ? ” said Susan, in apparent 
astonishment. 

She spoke as if she felt that her husband was in- 


12 Sickness as a Profession. 

fringing upon her business, and as if it had never 
before occurred to her that he could be sick. He 
tasted of the contents of one phial, then the other, 
then mixed them and tasted of the comp^ound, and, 
by tlie closest attention, could detect nothing but 
sweetened water. Putting the phials back in their 
places, he said : 

‘‘I am glad, Susan, you are better, and hope you 
feel like eating a dinner, for I guess Dina has done 
her best.” 

“ I think you would speak differently about your 
dinner if I had not been here to look after the 
girl.” 

As Susan made this remark Dina’s eyes sparkled, 
and she gave her a fierce look, but said nothing. 

Mr. Quin by saw he had made a mistake in compli- 
menting Dina’s dinner, and in a moment the real 
root of the trouble flashed upon his mind. If, in- 
stead of going into the garden, he had spent the half 
hour sitting near his wife, wearing an expression 
of calm serenity while she poured into his ears her 
tales of woe, there would have been no sensitiveness 
nor trouble about his recognition of the good dinner. 
As the fault was his own he resolved that Dina should 
not suffer. 

It was Mr. Quinby’s way to keep up a cheerful 
conversation at the table, and generally he was suc- 
cessful ; but after several failures to cast the burden 
from his own feelings and pour sunlight into the soul 


The Heroine of our Story Introduced. 13 

of Susan he gave up the task, and the meal was eaten 
mostly in silence. 

Mrs. Qiiinby was crushed by the neglect she had 
suffered ; Mr. Quinby was tempest-tossed by unset- 
tled questions ; Dina was mad, and it was wise in the 
trio to say but little. Wliat was lacking in sociability 
was made up by the keen relish which each one had 
for the bountiful feast of baked pork and beans, and 
in this respect Susan carried her part well. 

During the afternoon, in response to the bell, Mr. 
Quinby left his work and went to the house twice — 
once to rub Susan’s back between her shoulders, and 
once to consult with her in regard to discharging 
Dina and procuring another liired girl, as her cooking 
did not at all agree with Susan’s stomach. The reflec- 
tions of the afternoon had done any thing but bring 
quietness to the mind of Mr. Quinby, and on his sec- 
ond visit to the house he laid before Susan the burden 
of his indebtedness and the possibilities of being 
turned into the street. She thought he was veiy in- 
considerate to trouble her mind with such matters, as 
she was doing so much, and all she could, to help 
him through. It seemed to her passing strange that 
he should mind the time required for him to come to 
the house to prepare her medicines and give them to 
her. Facts, arguments, and the general interests of 
the family made no impression upon her mind. 
During this conference Mr. Quinby saw in a new 
light that there was not much left of his wife but an 


14 


Sickness as a Profession. 


all-absorbing selfishness. He saw, further, that all was 
lost unless the case would stand the shock of heroic 
treatment. He was thoroughly aroused, and the facts 
and refiections of the day had really changed the as- 
pect of his life. He resolved that before he slept he 
would see Dr. Simpson, and by persistent cross-ques- 
tioning either confirm his suspicions in regard to his 
wife’s condition and the medicine she was taking or 
completely dissipate them. Should we say that Mr. 
Quinby’s blood was up we should mean that, without 
bitterness, he was terribly in earnest, and ready for 
any step which truth and right might demand. His 
first business was to see the doctor, and he was eager 
to meet him. 

As he entered the house on his return from his 
corn-field that evening, Susan, meeting him at the 
door, said : 

J ames, dear, 1 wish you would go or send for 
Dr. Simpson ; I have felt so miserable the last two 
hours I could hardly stand it. We must have an- 
other girl, for Dina knows nothing about cooking for 
the sick.” 

Dina w^as in the milk-room humming the words, 
“ Shall we gather at the river ? ” and heard nothing 
of these murmurings against her. Mr. Quinby was 
glad Susan had called for the doctor, as it would en- 
able him the better to carry his scheme into effect. 
His supper over and chores done, he started on foot 
for Auburn, forgetful of his hard day’s work, and. 


The Heroine of our Story Introduced. 15 

finding the doctor in his ofiice, entered, sat down, and 
seemed to be in no hurry. 

“ How is madam to-night ? ” said the doctor. 

“ Hot very comfortable, and you will have to go up 
and see her.” 

“ To-night ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The doctor ordered his horse, and said : 

“ I hope nothing special has happened to the 
lady ! ” 

“ I supposed, doctor, that sickness was always some- 
thing special.” 

“ O yes ; but then Mrs. Quinby has been a contin- 
uous invalid for many years.” 

“ Yes, and I have my heart set on ascertaining what 
her diseases are. She has now been under your care 
six months, and you ought to be able to give me the 
desired information.” 

“ That would not be a very easy matter, nor would 
it be very agreeable to either your feelings or to 
mine.” 

‘‘ The pleasantness or unpleasantness of the case 
is not a question of any moment ; a knowledge of the 
facts, be they what they may, is every thing ” 

At this moment the doctor’s carriage was driven to 
his office-door, and he said : 

“ As you are on foot, Mr. Quinby, take a seat in 
the carriage, and we will see what new trouble has 
befallen the lady.” 


16 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

Complying with this invitation, Mr. Quinby said : 

My eyes were suddenly opened to-day to some 
facts, which, in spite of all I could do to the contrary, 
have made the impression upon my mind that my wife 
is not really sick in body, and that you know it ; and 
that the medicine she is taking is nothing but colored 
water and bread pills.” 

The doctor indulged in a burst of laughter, but 
Mr. Quinby was angry. Seeing that he was dealing 
with a very serious man, the doctor instantly took 
another tack, and piloted the craft into calmer waters. 
Mr. Quinby had obtained the information he desired, 
and had then no further occasion to refer to his wife’s 
sickness. His reticence annoyed the doctor not a lit- 
tle, for he feared that a feeling of unkindness might 
be harbored against him. But the residence of Mr. 
Quinby was soon reached, and Mrs. Quinby was 
found alone, waiting, in the parlor. 

‘‘Am sorry madam is not as well as usual to- 
night,” was the doctor’s salutation. 

“Ho, doctor, I am miserable enough.” 

The doctor looks at her tongue, then feels of her 
pulse, but says nothing. 

“ Madam, what had you for dinner to-day ? ” 

“ O, we had a regular farmer’s dinner — baked pork 
and beans; our girl knows nothing about cooking for 
sick people. 

“les,” said Mr. Quinby, “and pudding, cakes, 
pies, and other knick-knacks ; and as I noticed how 


The Heroine of our Story Introduced. 17 

heartily my dear wife ate of these things I felt sure 
that she would soon he in health again.” 

“Just like you, James, to tell every thing.” 

“ Exactly, and a doctor needs to know the facts in 
a case, that he may determine what to do.” 

“How much exercise have you taken, madam, 
during the afternoon ? ” inquired the doctor. 

“ Scarcely any ; I have not felt like stirring out of 
my chair, I have been so miserable.” 

“ Your case is clear enough. You ate too hearty a 
dinner, but you would have experienced no trouble 
had you taken a walk of a couple of miles, or other 
exercise to that amount. I think now if you stir about 
tjie house, or, as the evening is pleasant and the air 
balmy, take a walk in the garden and eat no supper, 
you will get along without the use of medicine.” 

This disposition of her case did not suit Susan at 
all. She said, a little touched : 

“ It seems, then, that I have become a glutton ; and, 
James, you may expect soon to have inscribed on my 
tombstone this epitaph : ‘ Died of gluttony.’ ” ' 

The doctor tried to laugh, as if Susan’s severe sen- 
tence upon herself were a mere pleasantry, and said : 

“ It is the case with all of us that at times our 
appetite and nicely cooked food get the start of us,- 
and, before we are aware of it, the stomach is over- 
loaded. In such cases an unusual amount of exercise 
is the quickest and surest remedy.” 

Mrs. Quinby felt much disturbed, but what she 
2 


18 Sickness as a Profession. 

then suffered was only the beginning of her sorrows. 
At this moment Mr. Quinby, holding a couple of 
phials in his hand, said : 

“Dr. Simpson, you have been treating my wife 
six months, and these phials contain the medicine 
she is now taking; by the taste I judge they con- 
tain nothing but colored water. Am 1 right or 
mistaken ? ” 

The truth now flashed through the mind of the 
doctor that he had serious work in hand. He knew 
it was impossible to evade the fiery glances of Mr. 
Quinby’s eyes, and to tell the truth would enrage 
Mrs. Quinby beyond endurance. He was allowed no 
time to hedge or dodge, for Mr. Quinby repeated 
his question with emphasis : 

“Tell me, doctor, is this medicine, or colored 
water ? ” 

“ Among physicians it is not regarded as profes- 
sional to say much to patients or to their friends 
about the medicines we administer, further than to 
indicate the effects we anticipate. In this case, how- 
ever, which is very peculiar — though, in the aggre- 
gate, there are many of them — from such diagnosis as 
I have been able to make of it during the time Mrs. 
Quinby has been under my care, I have judged it 
best not to administer to her strong medicine of any 
kind, as milder remedies would serve as well.” 

“You mean, then, to say that this medicine, so- 
called, is nothing but colored \vater ? ” 


The Heroine of Our Story Introduced. 19 

“ I guess it will be as well for you to know that 
the phials contain nothing but colored water.” 

“ Well, here is a box of pills you left for Susan to 
take. She has taken all but five, and this is the tenth 
box she has emptied. I have tested their virtues by 
chewing, and tasting, and swallowing them as best I 
could. Are they any thing but bread flavored with 
the oil of anise ? ” 

“ That is about what they are, sir.” 

Up to this time the clouded brow and icy stern- 
ness of Mr. Quinby had acted upon Susan as a spell, 
and she sat as a statue ; but she could endure no more. 

“ Do you say, doctor, that I am not an invalid — 
that I have not been sick for years, and that, because 
I was a healthy woman and needed no medicine, you 
have for six months given me nothing but colored 
water and bread pills ? ” 

‘‘ That is about the statement your husband has 
compelled me to make, madam.” 

“ Out upon you both ! This is a conspiracy you 
have entered into to humiliate and torment and kill 
me. James thinks if I were out of the way he could 
pay his debts. And it is no wonder that I am a sick 
woman, treated, as I have been, by a sly hypocrite. 
An honest doctor could have done me great good in 
half the time you have been fooling with your bread 
and water, and running up enormous doctor’s bills ; 
but then I wish they were twice as large as they 
are.” 


20 Sickness as a Profession. 

“Bat, Susan,” said Mr. Quinbj, “it was only to- 
day you told itie Dr. Simpson understood your case 
exactly, and tliat his medicines went directly to the 
spot.” 

This, as a center shot, was too much for Susan, and 
slie could make no reply. She sprung to her feet, 
and for some time strode backward and forward across 
the room, wringing her hands and sighing deeply. 
She was in real distress, and to witness her agony was 
a pain to the doctor as well as to her husband. But her 
trouble was mortification and madness. Pier humilia- 
tion sounded the very depths of her nature. The facts 
that she had learned — namely, that she was not really 
an invalid, that she could dispense with doctors and 
medicines altogether, and be a blessing to her house- 
hold — brought her not a ray of comfort. Excited as 
she was by the terrible blow her pride had received, 
reflection on any subject was not to be expected. 

The doctor, as a tender-hearted man, could not bear 
to return home and leave the Quinby cottage in such 
a terrible plight. Addressing Susan in gentle tones, 
he said, “ Mrs. Quinby, if you will have the patience 
to sit down and listen to me for a few moments I 
will explain this matter to you more fully.” 

“ I think you have done explaining enough for one 
night, and it would be cruel to tax you further.” 

Mr. Quinby commenced to say, “ I think the pros- 
pect of enjoying health — ” 

“Are you two men such fools as to think I don’t 


The Heroine of our Story Introduced. 21 

know whether I am sick or well, whether I have 
aches and pains or not ? Or am I the fool ? ” 

Without waiting for an answer to her questions, 
Mrs. Quinbj hastily left the parlor and repaired to 
her chamber. The doctor and Mr. Quinby sat in 
silence for some time, and listened as trunks, chairs, 
and stands moved about quite lively. Pier sharp, 
spiteful step jarred the house. Finally something was 
pitched into the hall, which proved to be Mr. Quin- 
by’s Sunday clothes, the door was shut, and the click 
of the lock was heard. 

After the silence of some minutes the doctor said : 
“ A pretty muss we have raised.” 

“ Any thing in preference to shams and frauds,” 
responded Mr. Quinby. 


22 


SlClLNESS AS A PkOFESSION, 


CHAPTER IL 

SUSAN THE SUBJECT OF EARNEST COUNSEL. 

“ Excess of study may produce epilepsy, diabetes, nervous headache, 
hemiplegia, jaundice, dyspepsia, and general nervous derangement. 
Close attention may result in visual liallucination, ocular spectrum, 
illusions, sensations of cold, sensations of heat, darting and pricking 
sensations, cataleptic rigidity, stigmata, purging, and nervous sleep.” 
— Dr. Tukb. 

“ Every conception, every mental affection, is followed by changes in 
the chemical nature of the secreted fluids ; and every thought, every 
sensation, is accompanied by a change in the composition of the sub- 
stance of the brain.” — D r. Leibig. 

On the night of the rupture in the Quinby family 
Dr. Simpson did not leave the house till some time 
after midnight. Strange as it may seem, Mr. Quinby 
was in a joyous mood, and felt, as he said, like a strong 
man prepared to run a race. He was aware of the 
greatness of the task before him, but difficulties 
seemed to be a source of inspiration and strength. 
The consciousness that illusions had been dispelled, 
that he knew where he stood, that he saw life as it 
was, as a bright light shone upon his pathway. 

Dr. Simpson was a scholarly man, of wide reading 
and extensive information, and an experience of two 
years in an asylum for the insane had enabled him to 
investigate with great care the interacting influence 


Susan the Subject of Earnest Counsel. 23 

of mind and body. His respect for the high charac- 
ter of Mr. Quinby, as well as sympathy for his wife, 
greatly interested him in the strange case then in 
hand, and soon after the click of the lock of Susan’s 
bedroom door was heard Mr. Quinby, in a cool, busi- 
ness way, said : 

“ As it is too late, doctor, for an interview to-night, 
I must see you at the earliest moment and receive the 
best instruction you can give me in regard to the 
management of this case. I feel that we have made 
a splendid beginning, and, though the work in hand is 
somewhat painful, the outcome will afford an abun- 
dant compensation.” 

“Yes, I see; you have used me as a tool as no 
other mortal ever did ; but as you are locked out of 
your room, and as my boy will know where to send 
for me if I am wanted, the talk you speak of might 
as well take place now as at any time. The case, in 
many ways, is interesting, and I shall be pleased to 
give it close attention.” 

“Well, doctor, then tell me what is the exact con- 
dition of Mrs. Quinby at present.” 

“ I had better first tell you what has brought her to 
the condition she is now in, for that knowledge will aid 
to a broader and better understanding of the whole 
matter. You are not aware, perhaps, that sickness as 
well as any other human interest can be practiced as a 
profession, and that people can work themselves into 
a way of taking supreme delight in telling to others 


24 Sickness as a Profession. 

4 

wliat they have suffered. Napoleon’s battles and vic- 
tories were no dearer to him than aches and pains are 
to the professional invalid. If you touch the trade of 
a blacksmith or of a carpenter you touch him, and in 
this case you have touched your wife’s life business. 
Here you have the true key to her anger and hot re- 
sentment: we have discredited her profession. Your 
wife, in short, is the victim of an all-engulfing and 
all-devouring selfishness.” 

‘‘That was the idea that struck me to-daj^, and 
brought to my mind a new conception of her state.” 

“ You know that man as we see him is a mind oc- 
cupying a body, and that the two substances mutually 
act and react upon each other. Locally, mind is 
seated in the brain as its castle, but its proper theater 
of action is not on the body, but in the vast and un- 
limited realm of ideas, external to both itself and to 
the body. When scientifically we examine a body 
we take as a subject of the scalpel and microscope 
some one not our own, and mind need not spend much 
time in thinking of self or of the house in which it 
locally dwells. Mind acts, and it is nourished by 
thinking, and it is furnished a universe of truths 
through which it may range and forage. Mind con- 
fined at home, feeding on self, becomes dwarfed, dis- 
satisfied, melancholy, and then it pines and hungers 
for something new and fresh in a wider field. This 
mental dissatisfaction acts more or less on the body ; 
the sufferer then feels unwell or sick, and calls for 


Susan the Subject of Earnest Counsel. 25 

medicine. As mind' thus preys upon the body the 
body suffers as a consequence, and it is for such sick- 
ness that bread pills and colored water are as good 
medicine as any.” 

“ Do you mean, doctor, that any one can suddenly 
fall into that state ? ” 

“ O no ; far from it. It is always the result of the 
growth of years. As living beings we are all wliat we 
grow to be. Life and growth always suppose change, 
and there can be no doubt that there are now in 
operation in your wife’s mental structure causes which 
began to act in her childhood. This is what makes 
our task so difficult. Your wife is no hypocrite. She 
has honestly for some years cherished the idea that 
she was doomed to be an invalid for life. This con- 
viction, like a crushing incubus, rests upon her phys- 
ical nature, and it must by some means be lifted. It 
is simply the result of the action of -mind upon body. 
Both mind and body have suffered as the result of 
this habit. Mind has been largely withdrawn from 
the vast and inspiring realm of thought and made to 
brood and dream over a very small point, called self. 
This mental habit came on so gradually as to be im- 
perceptible to both the sufferer and to her friends. 
By a little reflection you will see that, greatly as the 
body has suffered from this cause, mind has suffered 
still more. Compare your wife’s reading power and 
range of thought now with what they were ten years 
ago and note the difference.” 


26 Sickness as a Peofession. 

There is, doctor, a vast difference.” 

‘‘I have known persons of moderate intellectual 
strength to become great and renowned in the world 
bj yielding to the broad range their heart’s sym- 
pathies took. Self was the least and last of the 
objects of their thoughts, and every benevolent 
object, near and far, engaged their attention. The 
heart, made great and powerful by its grasp upon 
human interests, served as a mighty re-enforcement 
to the intellect. With the pen, on the platform, and in 
social life they were strong, eloquent, and influential, 
because of the breadth and warmth of their kindly 
feelings for others. I have known others, richly en- 
dowed in intellect, to become through selfishness the 
merest ciphers in the world. Intellect itself seemed 
to lose half its keenness and power. Self-nourishment 
is self-consumption and exhaustion. Greediness of 
gain, or praise, or self-conceit, or pure selfishness may 
superinduce the most ruinous concentration of mind 
on self. When the w^ords ‘I,’ ‘me,’ and ‘mine’ be- 
come the pivots around which the soul revolves, then 
it is certain that these will blend in one idea and become 
a vortex of ruin to the soul. This is about where Mrs. 
Quinby is to-night. Her distress is real, but it is all 
of her mind. Her self-conceit has received a terrible 
blow, her pride is mortified even unto death, and her 
vanity wounded to the last degree.” 

“ If, then, as is sure to be the case, her attention 
is called off from herself and fixed upon us who gave 


Susan the Subject of Earnest Counsel. 27 

the blows that caused her suffering, may we not see 
in that fact a first step in the way of recovery ? ” 

“ Certainly, and the convulsions and agony through 
which she is now passing are necessary steps in the 
process. Every hour she spends thinking of us, 
though attended with hate, is so much time that she 
is not thinking of self, and so much progress in the 
right direction. Her feelings of anger will be a 
change — an alterative — and do no harm.’’ 

“ All you say, doctor, of my wife’s concentration of 
thought on self is true, and yet the truth is not half 
told; but are you sure that this state of mind, which 
is mistaken for sickness of body, can be superinduced 
by thoughts and feelings of self ? ” 

“ Certainly ; for such has been my own observation 
in scores of cases, and so teach our best medical 
authors.” 

‘‘ Yery well; if we have now a clear idea of the 
cause of my wife’s trouble, let us, if you please, pass 
alone: to the consideration of the means of her recov- 

o 

ery. I am anxious about that.” 

‘Hn this respect all you can do is by one means 
and another take her thoughts off from herself. You 
, will find the case to be one very difficult of manage- 
ment ; requiring on your part tact, judgment, perse- 
verance, patience, firmness, and uniform kindness. 
As a means of drawing her thoughts off from herself 
you must contrive to interest her mind in something 
else. If you are thoroughly familiar with her par- 


28 


Sickness as a Profession. 


eiitage, cliildliood, and youth this knowledge will be 
of great service to you in this delicate business. 
You must exercise policy and study strategy in tliis 
enterprise. Rules of conduct can be of but little 
service to you, as in every particular you must suit 
your treatment to all the peculiarities of the case as 
they arise. Of course, you can do nothing till there 
is a subsidence of her present anger ; is that likely 
long to continue ? ” 

“Well — yes; her wrath will burn like a furnace 
for some days.’’ 

“ Then let it have its course ; probably nothing 
could serve our ends better, as while thinking of our 
cruelty she will not be thinking of herself. But as 
soon as her passions calm down, and thought gains the 
ascendency, you need to be ready and take possession. 
Propose selling your farm and making a voyage to Eu- 
rope, or do any thing, pleasing or otherwise, which will 
engage her attention. Put in her way books — novels 
or any other — which she will be the most likely to 
read with interest. Read them with her, and to- 
gether discuss their contents. Take any side of any 
question in debate which will interest her in the other 
side. . Keep away from your house sick-mongers — that 
is, persons whose supreme delight is to talk to willing 
ears of their aches and pains — and bring in to your 
family the most cheerful company. Probably the 
majority of people, men and women, take more satis- 
faction in telling what they have suffered than in speak- 


Susan the Subject of Earnest Counsel. 29 

ing of the blessings of life. A lady spends an afternoon 
at a neighbor’s with a visiting party, and on reaching 
home she finds that she does not feel well, and after a 
little concludes she is sick. She does really feel sick ; 
and what is the cause? Three out of the five ladies 
present during all the afternoon monopolized the time 
in giving the most vivid descriptions possible of what 
they had gone through. A spirit of rivalry sprang 
up among them, and each was anxious to make her 
case appear to be the worst, and each one made herself 
out to be a heroine of aches and pains. Now, out of the 
abundance of the heart the mouth will speak ; and were 
there present in the hearts of tliese women the warm 
and inspiring emotion of gratitude for the multitude 
of blessings received they would with pleasure speak 
of these things and feel the better for it. Ignoring the 
good, they feed on the dreary vacancy that remains, 
and as a consequence really feel sick ; and though their 
trouble is mental they think the seat of it must be in 
the body, and send for a doctor. He makes the visit, 
, leaves some bread pills or colored water — the best 
remedy for such a case — and charges a couple of dol- 
lars for his services. Have your wife avoid such places 
and such people as you would a lazar-house. Make 
parties composed of wide-awake people at your house, 
go to parties at other places wherever you can, and 
use every means in your power to keep your wife in 
the most active and cheerful society. She is a member 
of the church, and nothing could do her more good 


30 Sickness as a rKOFE:ssioN. 

than to become thoroughly interested in church work 
of all kinds. Had she a horse and carriage at her 
command, that she could ride about the country at 
her pleasure, the exercise might do her much good. 
Could you frequently go with her, and call her atten- 
tion to the peculiarities of the soil, the crops, the 
different kinds of trees, flowers, grasses, and other 
features of the country, the results of such rides 
'would be still better. I would go into the most out- 
of-the-way and romantic places the country afforded. 
Do every thing in your power to please her in things 
not herself, and if occasionally she is displeased with 
herself, as at present, no harm will result from that. 
But, above every thing else, she should be led to oc- 
cupy her mind with the care and responsibilities of 
her own household and the rearing of her children. 
Mrs. Qninby has in her system a slight touch of neural- 
gia, and she is a little dj^speptic. She should take some 
care of her diet, and a cold may give her nervous 
trouble. Every thing about the house should be made 
convenient, and then she should be made to feel that 
the prosperity of the family depended as much upon 
her as upon yourself. When the spirit of entei'prise, am- 
bition, pride, and a lively interest in the affairs of the 
church and the woi-ld shall make your wife happy she 
will possess better health than the majority of women.” 

“ Would you try, doctor, to dispense with the help 
of a hired girl ? ” 

‘‘ I think I would, though for some time you might 


Susan the Subject of Earnest Counsel. 31 

suffer inconvenience from it. The fact is, Mrs. 
Quinby has walked on crutches so long that as sure 
as they are within her reach she will use them. Of 
course, you would not be very exacting, and would 
expect to encounter some irregularities in household 
affairs till a new order of things was established.” 

“ Yes ; and then my daughter Helen, now eight 
years of age, is a little woman about the house.” 

“Very well, then, by all means let those have 
the hired girls who need them ; and see to it that 
your child does not take the lead in household 
matters.” 

“ Suppose that in the future Susan shall insist on 
being in the care of a doctor, what shall I do ? ” 

“ If she is really sick, as she may be, of course 
you will call a doctor, but the bread pill and colored 
water business has so disgusted her that she now feels 
that she will never care to see a doctor again ; but 
the game is lost unless she learn to live independent 
of them except in cases of necessity. Against all 
whims of this kind you must stand as firm and as 
hard as a rock. 

“ What you need, to manage this case, is pru- 
dence, patience, and uniform kindness. You should 
school yourself to speak to her in gentle, yet firm 
and dignified tones, and never use a harsh or re- 
proachful word. This campaign is to be one of love 
and strategy, and not of force. 

“We are really dealing directly with the woman’s 


32 Sickness as a Profession. 

life— the life of the body ; not so much the body or 
the mind as the life that mediates between the two. 
The body, as an organic structure, has been wrought 
into form by the life which now animates and actu- 
ates it. All science is compelled to recognize the 
presence and peculiar agency of this life, but as we 
know not what it is — as we cannot seize upon it as a 
tangible, ponderable substance — its presence is prac- 
tically ignored by the profession. Science may have 
along this line in the future some startling revelations 
for us. One thing is certain : whatever life, per se^ 
may be, it is closely related to the mind, and greatly 
subjected to its power ; hence the general and exclu- 
sively mental treatment I have suggested. 

“ Should you or either of the children be taken se- 
verely sick your wife would become at once one of the 
most patient and enduring of nurses. I have known 
many cases of this kind. A mother was waiting upon a 
daughter or a daughter ujdou a mother. One day the 
sick one, unable to walk from one room to another, 
had to be drawn in a heavy arm-chair across a car- 
-pet ; but the nurse, utterly worn out, broke down 
completely that night, and the sick one immediately 
became the nurse, waited assiduously upon the sick, 
kept house, cared and cooked for boarders, and did 
her work well. For months, or till the sick recov- 
ered, this service continued, and then she suffered a 
relapse and sent for the doctor.*’ 

“ W ell, doctor, if my wife does not recover till I 


SCSAN THE SUBJECT OF EaRNEST CoUNSEL. 33 

feign sickness she is doomed to be sick the rest of 
her life.” 

“ Your wife’s history is but one of many.” 

“ Do you think it possible, doctor, for Susan ever 
to see her case as you have now presented it to 
me — and is it not essential to her recovery that she 
do?” 

“ That is a very important matter, but we can do 
nothing with it. Let it take care of itself. 

“ If out of the present all-self there shall in the 
future be evolved a self for others, the new self will 
look back upon the present and see it as we do. It 
would be as useless to say any thing on that sub- 
ject now to her as to exhibit paintings to the 
blind, and you h^d better give it no attention 
whatever.” 

These deliberations were interrupted by the clock 
as it struck two, and the doctor said : 

I think I will now leave you for the night. You 
fully realize that you have a delicate and difficult 
task on hand, and the less you allow others to inter- 
meddle with it the better.” 

“Yes, doctor; but then I have the fullest faith 
that in the end we shall triumph. I feel stirring in 
me that power which is a presage of victory.” 

“ I rejoice that you are not at all despondent ; and 
if you prevail, as I think you will, I shall ascribe the 
success to that power and to the joyous faith which 

actuates you now.” 

3 


34 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ I trust, doctor, you will not think of relieving 
your mind from responsibility in the matter, for I 
have no doubt that I shall often come to you for 
counsel.” 

“ I hope you will keep me thoroughly informed 
of the progress of events, and I pray that the 
outcome may be such that I shall see my way clear 
from this time to abandon forever the bread pill 
practice.” 

Shut out of his room and left alone, Mr. Quinby 
had nothing to do but think. The past six years 
were re-read in a new light. It seemed as if scales 
had fallen from his eyes, and he was astonished at his 
past blindness. He reviewed the instruction received 
from the doctor so as to fix eacli, point clearly in his 
mind. How to manage the case so as to prevent 
soiling the minds of his children received much con- 
sideration. The more thoroughly each point in the 
case was considered the greater the task appeared — it 
was the transformation of a human life he had in 
hand. But as difficulties multiplied his courage and 
confidence arose, and he was eager for the fray. 
Happy in the prospect of the new life that was be- 
fore him, he commended himself and family to the 
care of the good Father, and retired. Finding the 
door of his sleeping-room still locked, he quietly took 
a bed in another room, and in a few moments fell 
asleep. 


Susan’s Parentage and Childhood. 


35 


CHAPTER III, 

SUSAN’S parentage AND CHILDHOOD. 

“ But parents to their offspring blind 
Consult not parts nor turn of mind; 

But even in infancy decree 

What this, what th’ other child shall be.” 

— Gay’s Fables. 

That we may comprehend more fully the cause of 
this terrible coup d’etat in the Quinby family, we 
will for a time leave Susan in her chamber and give 
a brief sketch of the influences which gave character 
to her childhood and youth. 

She was the daughter of Solomon, and l^arcissa 
Blodget, and it was her flrst misfortune to be an only 
child. Her father was by birth English, her mother 
American, and the, family in which she was reared 
was composed of her parents, grandparents, and a 
maiden aunt on her father’s side. Such was the 
selflsh parsimony of the family that they kept neither 
dog nor cat nor bird, and all the petting that was done 
was lavished upon this daughter. It goes without 
saying that she was a very uncommon child. As the 
grandfather found no lordly nobility in this country, 
he fancied that it had fallen to his lot to act the part 
of such, and from the day the child was christened 


36 Sickness as a Profession. 

he addressed it as “ Lady Susan, of the hotise of 
Blodget.” This touched the vanity of tlie American 
mother, and she felt that her English relationship had 
settled her and her child on the upper plane of soci- 
ety. When not asleep the child was almost constantly 
receiving attention. From this it found one slight 
relief, as the maiden aunt did not like her sister-in- 
law, and in some cases she found no way of gratify- 
ing her spite except to be indifferent to this remarka- 
ble child. Not much, however, was gained in this 
way, as her neglect was more than made up by the 
fond grandmother. 

It is probable that the first impression made upon 
the mind of the child was that she existed to be cared 
for and be gratified, and that others existed to supply 
her wants. She was not one with the other members 
of the family, but was a center around which they 
revolved, or a vortex in which they were engulfed. 
When six years of age not one of the family dared to 
disobey her commands. Her growth was simply a 
development of selfishness and self-importance. It is 
probable that the thought did not enter her mind that 
others had rights or privileges of any kind which she 
should respect. She was the same at eight and ten 
that she was at six, only of larger growth and greater 
strength of character. 

Susan’s fondness for music amounted to a passion, 
and it was the sole redeeming trait in her mental 
structure. Her voice was of unusual depth and 


Susan's Parentage and Childhood. 3T 

sweetness. She learned to read music easily, and the 
piano at an early age received much of her attention. 
She played some, plain music quite well when only 
eight. As a general thing the hours thus employed 
were a relief to the family ; and yet occasionally even 
in this respect her peculiar disposition was manifested 
to the annoyance of all. About nine o’clock one 
evening the grandfather said to her : 

“ Susie, dear, please rest a little ; you have been 
playing now a long time, and we will have worship, 
for grandpa is tired and would be glad to go to 
bed.” 

‘^Well, now, I can’t stop — I just can’t— -and I 
won’t. I don’t want to hear you say over that old 
prayer any more, any way, and if you want to go to 
bed you can go as quick as you please.” 

“ Why, Susie,” said her motlier, “ it is not nice to 
answer grandpa in that way.” 

“ Well, I don’t care, he needn’t bother me.” 

“ I guess there is no great hurry,” said the grand- 
mother ; “let Si^sie play as long as she feels like it.” 

The grandfather said no more, and, after waiting 
some half hour longer, quietly retired, and family 
worship was dispensed with. 

Susan was not allowecfto attend the district school 
until after she was fifteen years of age, and her mother 
undertook her education at home. The grandfather 
feared that the child might become injured by min- 
gling too freely with common children if turned loose 


88 Sickness as a Profession. 

among them on tlie playground, and the mother was 
sure that she would suffer moral contamination and 
become disobedient. Her education had not pro- 
gressed far before the mother found that she had in 

o 

hand quite as great a task as any school-teacher in 
the country. Susan would study what she liked and 
when she liked, and the mother’s authority amounted 
to nothing. Still the child learned, and her attain- 
ments were creditable compared with children of her 
age. The fact is, she possessed ability, and readily 
grasped whatever was brought to her attention. 
Susan’s father paid but little attention to her in any 
way whatever. He was a hard-working and very 
miserly man, always meditating upon the means, fair 
or foul, of making a dollar or a dime, and Susan was 
to him very much as any other child. His will and 
authority were never felt by her on any occasion, and 
he rather seemed to enjoy the manner in which she 
would make playthings of her mother and grand- 
parents. To punish her one day for saucy talk the 
mother locked the piano and hid the key, But she 
soon produced it to hush the screams and to save the 
child from spasms. 

Susan fell into the habit of remaining in bed to a 
very late hour in the morning, and then demanded 
that a special breakfast be provided for her. This 
had become too much for the patience of every one, 
even the grandmother, and one day a solemn council 
was held on the subject and the interests of the 


Susan’s Parentage and Childhood. 39 

family thoroughly discussed. After much delibera- 
tion it was decided that the next morning Susan 
should take her breakfast with the rest of the family, 
and the motlier was charged with the task of making 
known to lier this important fact. 

That night the mother went with Susan to her 
chamber and explained to her the decisions of the 
council, and the new order of things to be introduced. 
Stamping on the floor and loud, sharp words in the 
chamber were heard by those in the sitting-room be- 
low, but nobody cared to understand what was said. 
As the mother returned, in a low tone she said : 

“ Wliat can be done with that child ? ” 

‘‘You must,” said the grandfather, “go to her 
room in the morning, and if she is not up shake her 
out of bed.” 

As the grandmother had committed herself to this 
enterprise she said nothing but “ O dear ! ” 

The next morning, as breakfast was about ready, 
Mrs. Blodget went to her daughter’s room and found 
her fast asleep. Gently waking lier, she said : 

“Susie, dear, come, breakfast is about ready, and 
we have prepared hot toast and cakes, which you like 
so well. Now, dear, get right up.” 

“ Mother, how mean you are to wake me up ! I 
wish you would go away quick and let me alone.” 

“ But, Susan, we want you to breakfast with us, 
as one of the family ; also be present at worship, and 
play the organ.” 


40 


Sickness as a Profession. 


“ Well, I don’t want to breakfast with you ; I 
would rather eat alone.” 

“ Susie, to get a special breakfast for you greatly 
delays the work, and you must get up.” 

“Well, I won’t get up, and you will get me a 
breakfast.” 

“ Susan, we have all decided that you must get up 
to breakfast,” and as the mother said this she com- 
menced to lay down the bed-clothes. 

Susan seized them with her left hand, and with 
frightful screams drew the other to strike her mother. 
The motlier was frightened, and recoiled from any 
further attempts to carry into effect the order of the 
council. Soothingly she said: “ Well, Susie, dear, 
keep your bed and get up when you get ready.” 

“That is what I intend to do,” said Susie as she 
lay down, covered herself up, and prepared for an- 
other nap. This was the first and last attempt to 
subject Susan to authority made by any of the 
family. 

Susan’s taste for dress received an early develop- 
ment, and it was nice and correct. It probably took 
its start from the careful attention she gave to the 
hats and dresses she herself prepared for her seven 
dolls. These toys she always handled with the great- 
est care, as if they were really alive. She called them 
her family, her seven children, and they were of dif- 
ferent sizes and complexions, and each was called 
by its name. Among them was one boy-doll which 


Susan’s Parentage and Childhood. 41 

she called Dick, the name of a neighbor’s canary 
bird. These dolls were always dressed with good ma- 
terial and in exquisite taste. Susan early learned the 
use of the words “ horrid ” and nice,” and every thing 
pertaining to dress was either nice or horrid. It was 
amusing to see how, without any instruction, she 
would adjust the colors of their toilet. The boy she 
would not allow to wear any thing but pants and 
shirt, and the pants were kept on by only one sus- 
pender. She had seen a picture of a roistei-ly boy 
thus dressed which liad pleased her fancy. Slie was 
not ten years of age when all these ideas of dress 
were transferred to herself, enlarged and intensified 
a hundred-fold. On her return from Sunday-scliool 
and church she could describe every “ nice ” and every 
“ horrid ” bonnet she had seen, and as she had been 
lavish with her dolls so her parents must be with her. 
These demands were so imperious and enforced with 
such arguments that resistance was scarcely thought 
of. These arguments were cat-like screams and 
jumping up and down on the floor, jarring the house 
and causing pots, kettles, and dishes to rattle. Her 
reasoning was very brief : “ What are silks and mus- 
lins for but to make dresses, and what are my parents 
for but to procure them for me?” At fourteen 
Susan’s wardrobe contained clothing sufficient for a 
large family of girls of different ages. 

Among all the girls in the community Susan could 
name but one that she could call a friend, J erusha 


42 Sickness as a Profession. 

Allen. Jeruslia was the youngest of six children, 
and her father died when she was a babe. The fam- 
ily was left in poor circumstances, but by careful 
management and industry they made a comfortable 
living. At an early age Jeruslia was made to com- 
prehend the situation and taught to do her part. One 
doll was all she could have, and her own clothing must 
be clean and neat but not costly. When only eight 
she went into a store and acted as “ cash boy,” at a 
small salary, and so well did she do her work that at 
twelve she was put behind the counter to sell goods. 
Jeruslia never wore a garment without knowing ex- 
actly what it cost, and she not only helped herself, 
but took pleasure in making her mother’s burdens 
as light as possible. She always had something to 
do, and was a happy, contented girl. 

Strange as it may seem, Jeruslia and Susan were 
always the best of friends ; not in a single instance 
were they ever known to have the least disagreement. 
Jerusha seemed oblivious to every thing in Susan 
which was offensive to other people, and pleased to 
cater to her tastes and whims, and in one or two in- 
stances Susan was known to practice self-denial in the 
interests of Jerusha. In this fact there is proof that 
Susan was like other people, and that the root of 
generosity was really in her nature. Had it been 
early cultivated and developed, as it would have been 
if she had been one of a half dozen children and re- 
ceived not more than one tenth the attention which 


Susan’s Parentage and Childhood. 43 

was bestowed upon her, she would hav^e been another 
child, a different wife and mother. 

Though Jerusha was a general favorite in the com- 
munity, and received much attention, yet her friend 
was Susan Blodget, who at home was a plague, and 
abroad nobody could or would endure. We can ex- 
plain the fact only on the hypothesis that the two 
girls had found in each other’s nature elements of 
character wliich had escaped the observation of the 
public. In lier way Jerusha was as immovable as 
the pillars of Hercules, and Susan never attempted to 
influence her conduct in the least ; instinctively she 
knew that that could not be done. How two persons 
so different could be friends, or be so much together, 
and neither modify in the least the other’s charac- 
ter, was a mystery that neighbors could not solve. 
Were they not binary stars, revolving around a com- 
mon center, and hence in their movements there was 
no collision ? 

But at home Susan had become so strong in her 
selflshness, so flerce in her exactions, and so deflant of 
all authority that her presence was almost unendur- 
able. It was as agreeable to her feelings to stir up a 
bedlam in the family as to minister to its quietness and 
peace. To cross her mother’s path and fling in her 
face saucy, ugly language seemed to be a delight. 
She got into the way of thinking that all about the 
house was surplusage which did not minister to her 
comfort. 


44 


Sickness as a Profession, 


As this home had become a storm-center, and all 
comfort had fled, another counsel was held, and after 
much deliberation it was decided that Susan must be 
sent awaj to a boarding school. She was now six- 
teen years of age ; she must in some way be made to 
feel the responsibilities of her womanhood ; at home 
tliere was no ground of hope for her, and nothing 
could be lost by sending her away. It was decided 
to commit her destiny to the Cincinnati Female Col- 
lege, and preparations for the great event immediately 
commenced. 

But though Susan liked the idea of an education, 
and was not averse to seeing something of the world 
away from home, yet she refused to budge an inch 
unless her friend Jerusha could go with her. A girl, 
however, needs money to meet expenses away from 
home, and Mrs. Allen was poor. To obviate this 
difficulty Susan proposed that they hire a room and 
board themselves. “I will do the work one week,” 
she said, “and Push shall the next, and so we will 
change about and have a good time.” This propo- 
sition surprised every body, as Susan could have lived 
in first-class style by herself. This idea pleased the 
Blodget family very much, for many reasons. With 
Jerusha as Susan’s companion, they hoped to be able 
to keep her in school for some months. Mrs. Allen’s 
> son, a thrifty young married man, fell in with the 
idea, and proposed to help his mother in the matter of 
expense. Said Jerusha : 


Susan’s Parentage and Childhood. 45 

“ It will be all right for Bill to do this, for he owes 
me something for caring for his babies.” 

“I take it as providential,” said Susan’s mother, 
“that all parties are so fully agreed in this matter, 
and I shall pray that the best good may come out 
of it.” 

The morning the two young ladies left home for 
school feelings were badly mixed in the Blodget 
family. 

There were joy and tears, hope and fear, but on 
the whole the event appeared like the dawning of 
day and the beginning of a new life. 


46 


Sickness as a Peofession. 


CHAPTER lY. 

SUSAN AT SCHOOL. 

“ What is it to be wise ? 

’Tis but to know how little can be known, 

To see all others’ faults, and feel our own '' — Pope. 

As some days have passed away and Susan yet 
keeps her chamber, most of the time with the door 
locked, her early life may still engage our attention. 

William Allen, Jerusha’s brother, accompanied tlie 
ladies to Cincinnati, and, after looking the ground 
over, concluded that they had better do no cooking, 
but procure table-board with a family, and simply 
care for their room ; and he was mindful to leave 
with his sister all the funds he thought slie was likely 
to need during the term. 

Susan was now practically in a new world, and she 
found it no easy matter to adjust her feelings to its de- 
mands. She was, however, determined to do herself 
credit as a lady, and as a scholar be second to no one 
in the school ; nor was she slow to comprehend the 
situation, and to estimate both the value and price of 
success. The first lesson she learned was that her 
fellow-pupils cared no more for her than she did for 
them. She felt keenly the fact that she was no 
longer the center of attraction, but a mere isolated 


Susan at School. 


47 


speck, regarded, if at all, with indifference. She 
learned that young ladies at school are severe in their 
criticisms and judgments upon each other, and that 
she could not afford to make a single mistake. This 
first lesson tended only to increase her selfishness and 
embarrass the situation, for it added to existing diffi- 
culties the elements of fear and anxiety. The city 
and school employed the thoughts, and to some ex- 
tent gratified the curiosity, of Susan ; otherwise she 
would have been very homesick and wretched. The 
thought of dropping self and grasping an outside 
world as the key-note of a life-time had not as yet 
even entered her mind. But situated as she was, 
receiving only the most formal attention and not 
words of flattery from any source, the self was sorely 
suffering of hunger. To the things which agitated 
the mind of Susan Jerusha was insensible. Without 
an effort, and almost unconsciously, she made friends 
daily and was happy. Wrapped up in self as in a 
mantle, Susan approached no one, and no one made 
advances to her ; in that sea of life she was a lonely, 
desolate isle. 

To the real facts in the case, even with the example 
of Jerusha before her, she was totally blind. Her 
self-engulfment was so complete that she could see 
nothing else but self. 

Susan found time to study her books, and such was 
her aptness to learn that her standing was good in 
all her classes. In mathematics she easily kept at the 


48 


Sickness as a Profession. 


head of her department, but the self-sufficient, if not 
vaunting, spirit slie manifested excited jealousy 
rather than admiration. Poor girl ! she suffers even 
in consequence of her merits, and yet is unable to 
understand the cause. Had it not been for the pres- 
ence of her calm and unchangeable friend, Jerusha, 
Susan could not have been kept in Cincinnati a week. 
As it was, she became discouraged, felt badly, was 
homesick, thought she was really sick, took to her 
bed, and sent for her mother and for a doctor. When 
the mother arrived the doctor had made one visit, but 
administered no medicine. He was not called again, 
as the mother’s presence brought Susan out of bed, 
and she was as well as ever in less than a half hour. 
The ever-cheerful Jerusha could hardly help laughing 
at Susan for calling the doctor for such sort of 
sickness. 

“ Well, I reall}^ did feel sick,” she replied, “ and I 
believe I was sick.” 

Susan at home had abstained from the use of coffee, 
and the mother congratulated herself that in that re- 
spect, if in no other, she had exerted a little influ- 
ence over her. At the supper-table that night she 
said to her mother, in a very old-womanish and lan- 
guid manner : 

Mother, I do need a cup of coffee to-night to sus- 
tain me,” which caused a titter of amusement at the 
table, the spirit of which slie did not at the time un- 
derstand. She was inclined to be offended till she no- 


Susan at School. 


49 


ticed her mother’s merriment. When her words were 
repeated and she saw what a spleenish old woman 
she liad made of herself she laughed with the rest, 
and this little pleasantry was the beginning of a freer 
intercourse between Susan and her fellow-pupils who 
were present. Mrs. Blodget stopped with the girls 
two nights and one day, then returned home. The 
expression, I must have a little coffee to sustain 
me,” became quite common among the girls, and, as 
Susan had the good sense to be among the foremost 
in using it, it served as a chord, and the first which 
vibrated pleasantly, between herself and them. Je- 
rusha bantered her occasionally about her sickness, 
and this she endured, but charged her to say nothing 
to the other girls about it. 

The term closed up rather pleasantly, and in good 
spirits the ladies returned to their homes to spend the 
vacation of two weeks. Here, as naturally as lead 
sinks in the water, Susan fell back into her old way ot 
living. For the first two days every thing passed off 
pleasantly, for that time was occupied in detailing 
school reminiscences to willing ears. It must, in the 
interest of truth and to the credit of Susan, be stated 
that her grandparents first began to play the fool with 
her, but she should have been ashamed to see the old 
lady, crippled with rheumatism, trot across the room 
to get a cushioned chair for her or bring her a glass of 
water. At school Susan had been like a bow long 

bent but which had lost none of its elasticity, and now 
4 


50 Sickness as a Profession. 

she was fully herself again. She was unhappy ; she 
was really wretched, and, in ignorance of the true 
cause, thought others failed in tlieir duty to make 
lier happy. Her mother, as the chief culprit, was the 
first and foremost one to feel her spite and bitter- 
ness. What a pity that Susan could not at that time 
have had a friend to have kindly said to her: “You 
become supremely selfish ; self is your world, your 
empire, and as a source of enjoyment it is too small, 
too poor, and too insignificant to meet your wants 
and bring you happiness. Let self be self-forgetting, 
and in its place grasp the universe which is over, 
above, and beyond self, and it will bring you happi- 
ness. You put the lid on the empty cup and then 
try to make it fill itself, but the vacuum remains. In 
that condition you can’t make yourself happy — others 
can’t make you happy — but if in the spirit of self- 
forgetfulness you open your heart to the ingress of 
the good things without they will enrich you with 
their wealth and loveliness.” 

As Jerusha was not a philosopher she could per- 
form no such service, and as Susan suited her well 
enough she never thought that changes in her char- 
acter or disposition were desirable. 

But it was a great relief to the Blodget family 
when the time came for the girls to leave for school 
again. However, before she left home it was evident 
that Susan had been indulging in some serious 
reflections. Her most costly dresses and the most of 


Susan at School. 


51 


her jewelry she left at home, and as she took the 
train for Cincinnati she was no more richly dressed 
than J erusha. She had been pondering the question : 
“Why is Kush liked by every body, teachers and 
pupils, and there is not one in the school I can call 
my friend ? There must be a cause, and the trouble 
must be in myself. What can it be ? ” As an eye 
cannot see itself, so it is with mind that is all self. 
This simple fact Susan did not understand. Self- 
consciousness was so complete that she could not be 
conscious of any thing else, whereas Jerusha seemed 
never to have any self-consciousness, as her mind was 
always on her duties in the outside world. 

During the first week of school Jennie Wilson, a 
classmate of Susan’s, called at the room of the girls, 
and in the course of the interview said : 

“ I can never understand our horrid algebra.” 

“You have not got into trouble so soon?” re- 
sponded Susan. 

“ Yes, I have, and I am tempted to give it up.’ 

“ I wouldn’t do that ; conquer it and you will 
deserve all the more credit. Algebra seems so easy 
to me that I shall never think much of it as a study.” 

Handing Jennie her book, Susan said: 

“ Let me see what bothers you.” 

In a kind and sympathetic way Susan spent about 
an hour explaining to Jennie, not only her lesson, 
but the principles of this abstruse science. Each 
point was stated so clearly, and the illustrations were 


52 Sickness as a Profession. 

so simple, tliat Jennie felt greatly encouraged, and 
appeared to be very happy in the help she had 
found. 

“ Sue,” said Kush, ‘‘ I believe you were cut out 
to be a school-teacher.’’ 

Susan accepted this statement as a high compli- 
ment, and she found pleasure — the first of the kind 
she had ever enjoyed — in the good she had done her 
classmate, Jennie. Jennie was very grateful for the 
help received, and felt that what Susan had done was 
an act of pure friendliness. After that day Susan 
enjoyed the satisfaction of feeling that she had made 
a friend among her fellow-pupils. The thought of 
being a school-teacher pleased her, and the idea 
tended to carry her mind away from herself and fix 
it upon others whom she was to benefit. After this 
Jennie was often in Susan’s room, and for her good 
standing in her class she was largely indebted to the 
kind attention she received. 

A revival of religion which took place in Wesley 
Chapel penetrated the college, and Susan, Jerusha, 
and many other pupils became pronounced members 
of the Church. This event dissolved the partition 
wall which had existed between Susan and many 
of the pupils, and she found great satisfaction in their 
cordial friendship. 

During her first term at school Susan had suffered 
extreme mortification because she was allowed to 
stand alone unloved, and she entered upon this second 


Susan at School. 


53 


term a humbled girl, and determined to know the 
cause and retrieve her fortunes. Costly and gaudy 
dresses were laid aside, and she studied to be one of, 
and one with, the rest. As she could not attract the 
supreme attention of others, nothing was left for her 
to do but give it. And this she at last learned to do, 
and it was one of the benefits she derived from going 
away from home. Here her being as a bud blos- 
somed into a flower. 

Susan was the best soprano singer in the college, 
and in all concerts to her was assigned a conspicuous 
part. She also became a member of a choir at 
Wesley Chapel, and accepted the responsibilities of a 
teacher in the Sunday-school. As Susan’s standing 
was good in all her classes, and her relations pleasant 
with her fellow-pupils, the last part of this term 
glided swiftly away, and she regarded it the most 
pleasant epoch of her life. 

On her return from the college, after the exercises 
which closed the term, a messenger placed in her 
hands the following letter : 

“ Cincinnati, June — , . 

“ Madam : I have seen you at Wesley Chapel, and I 
saw you at the college concert last night, and the ob- 
ject of this note is to request an introduction. I am 
a stranger in the city, and can give you no references, 
but as the interview I seek can take place in the 
presence of your friends that need make no differ- 
ence. As I expect to leave the city in the morning 


54 


Sickness as a Profession. 


I would be pleased to meet you this evening, at any 
hour you may name. 

“ The bearer of tliis note will bring me your reply. 

“ Very respectfully, James S. Quinby.” 

Keply. 

*• Cincinnati, June — , . 

“Sir: Your favor of this date is received, and its 
frankness impresses me that the writer must be a gen- 
tleman. As a pupil at scliool I have rather put my- 
self under the guardian wing of Mrs. James Swanson, 

of St., No. 680. By presenting her your card at 

eight P. M., and asking to see me, if it shall please 
her^ an introduction may be obtained. 

“ Eespectfully, Susan Blodget.” 

Of course Mrs. Swanson, the proprietor of the 
house in which Susan roomed, was shown Mr. 
Quinby’s letter, and its contents and the reply were 
made known to Jerusha. 

“ Now, Kush,” said Susan, “ you must stand by me 
and see me through this business.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ You must go into the parlor with me and be 
introduced to this Mr. Quinby, and not leave till 
1 do.” 

“ O fie 1 that won’t suit him at all.” 

“ It will have to suit him ; I shall have no talk 
with him, nor with any other stranger, which he would 
not be willing any body should hear.” 


Susan at School. 


55 


“ Very well, I will go in, for I want to get a glance 
at him any way.” 

In anticipation of meeting this stranger Susan 
gave her toilet a few exquisite touches, but she 
avoided every thing elaborate. Modesty and extreme 
simplicity was the ideal she wished to express. 

Promptly at eight o’clock the bell rang, and in a 
moment Mr. Quinby was seated in the parlor and 
the request made to see Miss Blodget. 

‘‘Are you acquainted with her?” inquired Mrs. 
Swanson. 

“ I am not — never saw her, except twice.” 

“ Have you references ? ” 

“I have none; I am a stranger in the city and 
I expect to leave in the morning. I desire now 
simply to meet the lady, learn her place of resi- 
dence, and obtain her address, if she shall be pleased 
to give it.” 

“Your appearance, sir, certainly entitles you to 
that privilege ; excuse me, and I will invite Miss 
Blodget in.” 

After the ladies entered, and Mr. Quinby was in- 
troduced to tliem, Mrs. Swanson turned to leave the 
room. Mr. Quinby said : 

“ Madam, unless business calls you away, I prefer - 
that you remain during this interview.” 

Then, addressing himself to Miss Susan, he said : 

“ From what I have seen of you at church, and at 
the college, I desired to meet you, and, if it please 


56 Sickness as a Profession. 

you, learn your place of residence, and obtain your 
address. Allow me to say that I contemplate honor- 
able business. My age is twenty-two ; by inclination 
and practice I am a farmer, and am in a way of mak- 
ing an independent but not extravagant living. I was 
educated at Cazenovia Seminary, and am a Meth- 
odist. Personally, I am what you see me to be, and if 
in your judgment a further acquaintance is desirable 
you have only to give me your address.” 

Mr. Quinby was a young man of splendid appear- 
ance. His height was fully six feet, he was broad- 
shouldered, trim, and compactly built ; dark complex- 
ion, bright, expressive countenance, eyes small, deep- 
set and dark, hair abundant, bushy, and as black as a 
raven’s wing. 

Susan had now entered her seventeenth year, and 
was quite mature for her age. She was of medium 
height, of slender form, round, and symmetrically 
built. Her forehead was not broad, but full, angu- 
lar, and high ; her ears were small, low down, and 
well back in her head, indicating a sharp intellect. 
Her features were regular, and carried a pensive, del- 
icate expression. Without being too thin, her face 
was in perfect symmetry with her form. Her thin 
lips, dancing blue eyes, and auburn hair, which, when 
flowing, reached far below her waist, but now massed 
around her head, complete the picture Susan pre- 
sented at this time. 

“Splendid! Splendid!” said Mrs. Swanson to 


Susan at School. 


57 


herself, as she gazed at tliem both. Jerusha, as in- 
nocent and unimpassioned as a kitten, hoped Snsaii 
would have nothing to say to him, as she did not 
want to lose her friend — a touch of selfishness. 

In reply to Mr. Quinby’s request for lier address, 
Susan said : 

“Your frankness, Mr. Quinby, impresses me that 
you are exactly what you represent yourself to be ; 
without proof I have no right to judge differently, 
and, I see no reason why it should not be granted. 
Mrs. Swanson, as you are still my adviser, let me ask, 
do you 

“ The gentleman has certainly impressed me very 
favorably. I give my consent.” 

With Susan’s card in hand, Mr. Quinby bade the 
ladies good- evening, and took his leave. He was 
hardly out of hearing when Mrs. Swanson, clapping 
her hands, exclaimed : 

‘‘ Splendid ! Splendid ! A more manly man than 
that I have not seen in many a day. Splendid ! I say. 
Splendid in body, and still more splendid in soul.” 

“What did he say his age was?” inquired Susan. 

“Twenty-two,” responded Jerusha; “I wonder if 
you have forgotten.” 

“ Exactly the right age,” said Mi*s. Swanson. 

“I have forgotten where he said he was educated,” 
said Susan, laughing, and all laughed. 

“Cazenovia; a first class academy in New York 
State,” responded Jerusha. 


58 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ Tell us, Sue, what he said his business was,” said 
Jerusha, in a bantering way. 

“He didn’t tell us that ; did he?” said Susan. 

Another explosion of laughter. 

“Certainly he did,” said Mrs. Swanson. “‘By 
taste and practice,’ he said, he was a farmer ; the most 
independent life that is lived.” 

“ Now, Sue,” said Jerusha, “as you did not hear 
any thing he said, tell us what you were thinking 
about; or were you all eyes? Did you see him? 
Had he any beard ? ” 

“Yes; and, I think, a good deal of it for a boy of 
twenty-two,” said Susan. “ But then it showed for 
more than it was worth, because it was so black and 
his face was fair.” 

“ A good deal of a man for twenty-two, I think,” 
said Mrs. Swanson. 

“ Do you think his age is more than that ?” inquired 
Susan. 

“No; that man’s word is as good as anybody’s 
oath.” 

The mischievous Jerusha inquired : 

“ What Church did he say he belonged to. Sue ? ” 

“ O, your nonsense ! he didn’t say any thing about 
that,” replied Susan, and of course there was another 
explosion of laughter. 

“ W ell, tell me the color of his neck-tie ; as you 
heard nothing, let us know if you saw the gentle- 
man.” 


Susan at School. 


59 


“ His neck-tie was blue.” 

“ Had be studs in his shirt-front ? ” 

“ Yes, three.” 

“ What was the color of his eyes and hair ? ” 

“ Black.” 

“ Had he rings on his fingers ? ” 

“ One on his left little finger.” 

“ That will do ; I guess you were entranced, and 
could do nothing but look at him. I liave not a 
doubt but that if we could look in upon your soul 
we should see his image photographed there. I wish 
he had stayed longer. It seems to me as if an appari- 
tion had appeared and vanished.” 

“ Well, then, let us vanish to our room,” said Susan. 


60 


Sickness as a Peofession. 


CHAPTEP y. 

SUSAN AS A WIFE AND MOTHER. 

“ There is a mystic thread of life 
So deadly wrought with mine alone 

That destiny’s relentless knife 
At once must sever both or none.” — Barton. 

On her return home Susan learned that her grand- 
father had been acquainted in former years with 
James Quinby, senior, and that tlie family was of 
the highest respectability. The account she gave of 
her introduction to the son in Cincinnati was entirely 
satisfactory to the Blodgets, and not many days 
elapsed before she received a letter requesting her to 
name the day when it would be convenient for her to 
receive a formal visit from him. The courtship 
thus commenced, by visits and correspondence, con- 
tinued for one year and ten days, when their nuptials 
were duly celebrated. 

Mr. Quinby felt sure that he was well acquainted 
with the woman he had made his wife, and probably 
he knew her as a lady, but he knew nothing of her 
peculiar disposition. When he was at her father’s 
house Susan’s Cincinnati life seemed to come back 
to her, and no trace of selfishness could be detected 
in her nature. She was graceful, dignified, and po- 


Susan as a Wife and Mother. 61 

lite to all. And during the year of her prospective 
marriage her mind was so thoroughly occupied with 
the object of her affections, and in getting ready for 
the celebration of her nuptials, that it was only occa- 
sionally that the curse of her selfishness came upon 
her. At such rare times she was melancholy, discon- 
tented, out with the world, and if not a terror in the 
family it was because she liad retired to her chamber 
and taken to her bed. This element of Susan’s nat- 
ure — the deepest root in it — Mr. Quinby knew noth- 
ing of. We do not think the woman wore a mask, or 
intended to practice deception. The presence of her 
lover was always to her a supreme delight, and she 
acted accordingly. How could he know the exist- 
ence of what his presence annihilated? Candor on 
the part of Susan’s father should have induced him 
to acquaint Mr. Quinby with this hidden fact in 
Susan’s disposition, as much so as if it had been an 
element of insanity. This Mr. Blodget did not do, 
and Mr. Quinby took his daughter, for better or 
for worse, to be his wife, and if in the darkest days 
of his life he regretted it he kept the secret to him- 
self, and it perished with him. 

In the afternoon of the day of the wedding the 
happy bride was installed mistress of the cottage near 
Auburn, which has already been described. Susan 
herself had superintended the fitting up of the house 
and the arranging of the furniture ; consequently 
every thing she found to her liking. Mr. Quinby 


62 Sickness as a Profession. 

had proposed a short wedding-tour, but Susan in- 
quired : 

“ Where can we find a place which, even for an 
hour, will be so delightful as our own home ? ” 

“Nowhere ! ” 

“ Then let us stay at home. Besides, I am eager, 
before the season passes by any further, to do some 
work in the garden and front yard. I have brought 
with me rootlets and fiower-seeds in abundance, and 
they must be cared for at once.” 

“ All right ; go ahead, and I’ll help you.” 

“ I don’t want your help, except where spading is 
to be done, and you have this big farm to look after. 
I guess 1 can take care of my little patch.” 

“ All right again, and I intend to drive my work, 
and not allow it to drive me.” 

It was thus that, as the shadows of their bridal eve 
were gathering around them, these two souls were peer- 
ing into the near future and rejoicing as soldiers girding 
themselves for the battle. The tide of pure rational 
human happiness never rose higher than on this occa- 
sion. As seen in the garden among the fiowers that 
evening, they were a realization of the splendor and 
beauty of the Greek Apollo and Venus, crowned with 
the purity of Eden. Two souls thus embarked on 
life’s stormy sea are always objects of affectionate 
interest, and the prayers of all the good ascend for 
their prosperity. 

The summer passed away, and their sky was an 


Susan as a Wife and Mother. 63 

unclouded sunshine. The fields which Mr. Quiuby 
worked were near the house, and a lane led to the 
pastures beyond. The meadow-lands were to the west 
of the cottage, and in full view of the rear door. 
Except when in a depression at the south “ James,” 
as Susan called her husband, could always be seen 
from the cottage when at his work, and during the 
long summer days, about ten of the clock in the 
morning and four in the evening, Susan could be seen 
wdth a little lunch and fresh water making her way 
to him in the field. He often told her she need not 
be at that trouble, as he had grit and muscle enough 
to carry him through the whole day without eating 
any thing, if that were necessary. She replied : 

“Why not, James? My work is done, and I have 
read till I am tired of that, and I think that you 
relish a piece of pie, a doughnut, and some fresh 
cold water as well as any body; at any rate, you 
always eat every thing I bring you.” 

Once she rallied him on having eaten his lunch so 
quickly. “Xot two moments,” she said, “has it taken 
you to eat it;” but as James’s watch said ten minutes 
Susan had to acknowledge that she had not been 
careful to take a note of time. 

During the hay-making season, Susan, wearing an 
immense sun-bonnet, spent much of her time in the 
meadow, helping or bantering James. As a farm- 
er’s daughter, her quick perceptions had made her 
familiar with much of this business, and often, wdth 


64 


Sickness as a Profession. 


an old broom-handle, she would follow James an hour 
at a time, and stir out the heavy swath tliat fell be- 
fore his scythe. If to her alternate song and chatter 
he would give an occasional grunt, indicating that 
he was giving attention, that was enough ; but if in 
the course of an hour she brought from him, at some 
cute saying or droll story, a roar of laughter, that was 
a triumph. When in the field as night came on, she 
would skip up the lane, open the gate, and let the 
cow come down to the barn-yard, and, though often 
failing, she persisted in learning to milk. James, 
however, did not allow her to practice this trade 
except during the long summer days, when his work 
kept him late in the field. The long hour of sum- 
mer twilight was generally spent in the garden or 
front yard, and if the spade was needed it was used 
at that time. 

Mr. Quinby, as superintendent of the Auburn 
Sunday-school, suggested to his wife that she gather 
up a class and take charge of it. In looking around 
for pupils, the first lad she met reminded her of her 
boy doll, as he had but one suspender and was bare- 
footed. She took to him at once, and easily obtained 
a promise that he would be present the next Sabbath 
in the Sunday-school. With the help of this fellow 
she soon had a class of seven boys, wdiose ages 
ranged from ten to fourteen. James was proud of 
her success. Early in the fall she made for them a 
banquet, and each one was permitted to bring with 


Susan as a Wife and Mother. 65 

him a sister nearest his own age, or his mother, or, 
if he had neither, a cousin, and also any new scholars. 
Twenty-one were present: the seven boys, four new 
scholars, three mothers, and seven sisters, and a great 
time was enjoyed. James as a kind of solemn mon- 
ai’ch looked on with admiration, and Susan was 
every-where, and every tiling to every body. 

These little incidents serve as straws to indicate 
the beginning of married life in the Quinby family. 
The honey-moon of the wedded pair was not marred, 
but received dignity and was perpetuated by being 
blended with the practical realities of life. Thus 
time passed on. 

“ Months and moons their course did run, 

Each followed by a happier one.” 

When the following winter had passed away, and 
the time for the singing of birds had come, Susan 
was less inclined to out-door exercise than she had 
been. The winter had been severely cold, the snow 
deep, and she had become intensely interested in em- 
broidery and fine needle-work. The same joy and en- 
thusiasm which she carried into the hay-field she put 
into this new enterprise, and her success excited even 
her own admiration. She found, however, her chief 
joy in the compliments received from her husband. 

The Blodget family had wisely kept away from 
Quinbys, but the mother could deny herself no longer, 

and she came to remain a couple of weeks or more. 

5 


66 Sickness as a Profession. 

Susan and James were very glad to see her, and from 
the first hour oi ner arrival made her feel perfectly 
at home. The prosperity and happiness of the 
young couple gave her immense satisfaction. “ More 
perfect domestic bliss,” she wrote home, she “ never 
witnessed.” She saw in her son-in-law elements of 
character which greatly exalted him in her estima- 
tion. She said to friends, “ James, though lion-like 
in appearance, has the tenderness of a woman, and 
Susan has come to have the courage of a lion. She 
seems to forget how fragile she is, and to feel that 
James’s strength is hers.” 

It was well that Mrs. Blodget came to make her 
daughter a protracted visit, for on the first day of 
June to James and Susan was born a daughter, and 
she became grandmother. Of course, this was a 
great day in this young household, and as the mother 
did well and the child was bright every body was 
happy, and none more so than the mother. With her 
eyes on her babe, the purest rapture thrilled her heart. 
‘‘ I never before,” she said, ‘‘ fully felt what it was to - 
be a woman.” Not much time was required to give 
the child a name, for it had been agreed that if it 
was a girl it should be called Helen, and so it was 
named, and so christened some months later. - 

After a few days Susan was on her feet again, and 
caring for her child. She allowed the housemaid 
who did the work to handle it as little as possible, 
‘^for this,” she said, “ is my business.” Wlieii proper 


Susan as a Wife and Mother. 67 

relations were established between herself and child in 
the matter of nourishment the joy of the mother was 
complete. To look at the child, as she was giving 
her own life for its support, was to feel and know 
and enjoy all that is implied in the word woman. 

Time passes pleasantly along, Susan is well, strong, 
and bright as the morning, and her child is growing 
finely. One day she said : 

“James, it is not necessary for us to keep Bridget 
any longer; it will be no task at all for me to care 
for Helen and do the work.” 

“ Do as you please, but if you let her go and there 
is any heavy lifting to be done you must remind me 
of it.” 

“Very well, settle up with her Saturday and take 
her home,” said Susan. “ She should be well paid, for 
she has been a good girl.” 

One year from this time Bridget was brought 
back again into the Quinby family, and some weeks 
later a son was born, and according to a previous 
understanding between the parents he was named 
Charles James. As the child was born the exclama- 
tion, “ A son ! A son ! ” resounded from one room 
to another through the house, and Susan exclaimed, 
“ A dauffliter and a son. Thank God ! ” 

Her cup of bliss Avas not only enlarged, but it was 
filled.’ 

As at the birth of her first child, Susan was soon 
about the house again caring for herself and children. 


68 Sickness as a Profession. 

Uiifortiinatelv, she cared for them so much that 
here commenced a tendency to care for nothing else. 
The dream of her earlier years in regard to mother- 
hood was now fully realized. She saw no higher 
height to excite her ambition. It seemed to her 
that her mission as woman was fulfilled — her work 
done. The family was complete, and the ingress of 
another child and the death of either Helen or Charles 
would affect it about alike. The school in Cincinnati, 
the marriage and motherhood of Susan seem to have 
carried her mind too far — above the point at which 
she could sustain herself — and there w’as a reaction — 
a sort of relapse. There seems to have been a break 
in the centrifugal force of her mental structure, and 
the centripetal gained the ascendency. 

Helen was a bright, charming little girl, and at 
ten months she began to talk and run alone. At 
fifteen months, when Charles was born, she was pretty 
much out of the way, but she regarded him as an 
intruder, and did not give him a very hearty recep- 
tion. Seeing him in her cradle, a fevv days after his 
birth, she said, “ Dis mycadle;take dat ’ittle nassy 
ting out ; ” but after a few days she thought it nice 
to have a brother, and the peace of the family was 
restored. 

Suddenly a marked change comes over Mrs. Quin- 
by. The farm, the garden, the flowers, the stock, the 
church, the Sunday-school, and society seemed to 
drop out of her mind, and her children became the 


Susan as a Wife and Mother. 69 

world to lier. Though only a little past twenty, all 
girlishness and especially young ambition had fled. 
The wave of enthusiasm which but two years before 
so often carried her to the fields where her hus- 
band w^as at work has ebbed, to flow no more. The 
garden and flower-beds now receive but scant atten- 
tion. Another has her class in the Sunday-school, 
and she is but seldom in her place in the church. 
She manifests but little sympathy or interest in the 
work of her husband; James notices these changes, 
but explains them on the ground that his wife is a 
most devoted mother, and that two children demand 
much attention. He makes it a study to take a por- 
tion of this care upon himself, that his wife may have 
the opportunity of devoting a part of her time and 
thought to something else ; but after many efforts 
he learns that she is entirely contented and satisfied 
with matters as they are. He could not see that 
Susan’s loss of interest in the outside world was not so 
much a motherly devotion to her children as a recoil 
from the practical realities of life. As one whose 
earthly mission was fulfilled, she had sat down, folded 
her arms, and was gazing into vacuity ; a suppressive, 
if not a crushing, power she was exerting upon the 
active and outgoing elements of her nature. Mr. 
Quinby’s chief trouble at this time was that his wife 
was not happy, and the cause was a mystery. 


70 


Sickness as a Pbofession, 


CHAPTER YI. 

SUSAN ON THEWANE. 

“ The keenest pangs the wretched find 
Are rapture to the drearj' void — 

The leafless desert of the mind 

The waste of feelings unemployed ." — Byron. 

In Susan’s physical condition Mr. Quinby could 
discover no change. She was young, fresh, and vig- 
orous. Her appetite was good, she slept well, and 
made no complaint of pains or local troubles, but, in 
the absence of ambition, the fire, the fiash, and the en- 
thusiasm of her nature were gone. Mr. Quinby made 
the great mistake of telling her she must be unwell, 
and that he would procure for her a tonic medicine 
or call the doctor. To both propositions she objected, 
as she was not sick or physically weak. Susan kept 
her children neat and clean, and they were growing 
finely, but she never played wdth them, or tried to 
amuse them. With their fatlier, wdth each other, and 
with the young dog, Rover, they found the bright 
and cheerful side of the world. The piano stood 
without a player, and Susan’s voice was seldom heard 
in song. As one whose work was done, Susan was 
without ambition to do any thing. 

Mr. Quinby gave to her the closest attention, and 


Susan on the Wane. 


71 


spent much of liis time in and about the bouse. As 
the children became older, and demanded less of her 
attention, he noticed a further change — her first care 
and supreme joy was to draw attention to herself. 
So pleased was she to have Mr. Quinby near her that 
she gave the work on the farm no concern whatever. 
Helen had become old enough to bring her mother a 
glass of water, and otherwise wait upon her, and to 
do these tilings was the first lesson she was taught. 
Mr. Quinby noticed that in his absence Susan planned 
to receive from him all possible attention when pres- 
ent, and he, foolish man, felt flattered that he could 
contribute so much to her happiness ; and yet he could 
not bring to her face a gleam of sunshine. Had he 
known of the supreme attention she, as a young lady, 
had welcomed from her father, mother, grandparents, 
and aunt, he would have seen that she was falling 
back into that style of life, and that selfishness, as 
the deepest root of her being, would soon become its 
controlling element. But, poor man, he was without 
this knowledge, and had to grope his way along in 
utter darkness. Had he understood the case, asserted 
a husband’s right, and used a husband’s authority, 
Susan would have remained the gay and happy 
woman she was during the first three years of their 
wedded life. 

Her thoughts seemed to be so much on herself that 
whatever did not in some way flatter her fancy or 
contribute to her comfort was a weariness, and she 


72 Sickness as a Profession. 

wanted it put o'ut of her sight. The interest she took 
in her husband and children arose largely from the 
consideration that they could give attention to her 
and comply with her demands. Her disposition be- 
came imperious, and the peace of the family was not 
secure if her will was denied. As her melancholy 
tended to secure attention from her husband, she was 
inclined at first to make the most of it, then to feign 
it, as if it were one of the graces. The fact is, Susan 
had mentally collapsed, and had her mind been the 
mere life of the body she would have died. Her 
philosophy did not teach her to make a sharp dis- 
tinction between mind and body, and it was natural 
and easy for her to locate all unpleasant sensations in 
the body. Mental depression was regarded as phys- 
ical weakness, and a lack of ambition as a physical 
inability to stir. Mind thought upon these things, 
and to think of them w^as to prey upon them, and 
to intensify the evil. Mind began to lose its identity 
and independence in its subjection to the body, and 
the body suffered to an equal extent by this illegiti- 
mate use of its functions. 

Mrs. Quinby had now become the object of her 
husband’s first care and anxiety. He, foolish man, 
brought home one day a richly cushioned chair, called 
“the paradise of the sick,” and as Susan tested its 
qualities she seemed to be for a few minutes quite 
happy. For years to come this chair was destined to 
play a conspicuous part in the history of this woman. 


Susan on the Wane. 


73 


It was, in fact, her home a large part of the time dur- 
ing her waking hours. Having exhausted his re- 
sources, and in utter despair, Mr. Quinby brought 
home with him one day Dr. Wilson, without his 
wife’s consent. At first she was not pleased witli the 
call, but he was gentlemanly in his manners, and won 
upon her confidence. He examined her case tenderly, 
and spoke sympathetically of her loss of health. He 
expressed liimself as confident that lie could help her, 
but patience and perseverance, he said, would be nec- 
essary. He left a box of pills and a phial of fluid 
medicine, with instructions, promising to call again 
after two days. 

Susan has now found her place as an invalid, and 
with the utmost punctiliousness has commenced to 
take her bread pill and colored water medicines — for 
such they were. The doctor calls again, according to 
promise, but does not vary the treatment — he did not 
intend to when he came. He saw that the husband 
and wife wanted his services ; he knew well enough 
that he could do his patient no good, and adopted 
that course of treatment which would do the least 
harm. He would have preferred a thoroughly sick 
patient, but a case like Susan’s was better than none. 
The assiduous attentions of the doctor did not fail to 
take effect upon the mind of Susan. She began to 
feel, as of yore, that she was an object of interest — a 
center around which it was the pleasure of others to 
revolve. The first fatal idea that became fixed in 


74 Sickness as a Profession. 

her mind was that at the birth of her son her mission 
on earth as a woman was fulfilled, and now she is 
settling down in the conviction that during the rest 
of her life she is to be an invalid. She cherishes the 
idea as if it were a desirable fate, and calls it resigna- 
tion to the will of Providence. A practiced hunter, 
with his tried arms in hand, has, in the presence of a 
lion, a lion’s courage, but empty-handed he is like a 
scared child, and can do no better. In the absence 
of ambition, such mentally and morally was Susan’s 
condition. The ambitious, aggressive forces of her 
mind had subsided, and we find but ashes where once 
there was fire. The doctor comes, talks sickness and 
medicine, and goes. The attention thus received is 
becoming the most welcome balm to Susan’s heart. 
She treasures up every word he says about her case, 
and from two to five times a day the story is repeated 
to her husband. He manifests the keenest solicitude, 
and is ever watching for gleams of hope. The words 
which most fully appreciate how bad and despairing 
her condition is make the deepest impression upon 
her mind, and these she remembers the longest, and 
repeats with the greatest relish. In her sphere, and 
meeting its responsibilities and performing its duties, 
Susan was energetic, ambitious, and happy, but ^ut 
of it she finds nothing — no place, no work, no pleas- 
ure — which can serve as a substitute. Something is 
wrong, and what it is her husband does not know — the 
doctor himself does not really half understand her case. 


Susan on the Wane. 


75 


At tlie expiration of one year Dr. Wilson presented 
a bill, for visits and medicine, of eighty dollars, and 
liis services were dispensed with. During all this 
time Susan was professedly improving daily, but Mr. 
Quinby could discover no change for the better. 
Susan’s sole delight seemed to be to be watched, to 
be looked at, and waited upon. As one redeeming 
feature in the case, we may state that she was careful 
of her toilet, and was always in a presentable condi- 
tion, especially when a call by the doctor was antici- 
pated. 

Two years after Charles was born he was off his 
mother’s hands as a special care or anxiety, for the two 
children were much together or with their father. 
This was unfortunate, for it left Susan with less and 
less to think of and to do. She was not happy and 
buoyant in spirits, as she had been in former years. 
Her husband noticed that her relish for reading and 
for the discussion of literary questions was passing 
away, and that she had a constant craving to have 
something done for her. 

On coming in from the field one day at noon he 
found only bread and milk on the table for dinner. 
Susan was on the bed, with Helen sitting by her. 

“ I have been very miserable,” she said, all the 
forenoon, and I wish you would send for Dr. 
Bacon.” 

Without the least delay Dr. Bacon was called, and 
on examination he found her pulse and her tempera- 


76 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

ture normal, and could really discover nothing in her 
case that called for medicine. He made a plain 
statement of the matter to her in the presence of her 
husband, but gave her what he said would act gently 
as a pleasant tonic, and in any event do no harm. He 
suggested that by the next day there might be a fur- 
ther development of the case, and he would see her 
again. At his second visit he found his patient much 
the same as when he left her, and, seeing nothing that 
he could do, accepted the suggestion of Mr. Quinby 
that she was suffering from general debility, and 
needed rest and tonic bitters. The medicine was pre- 
pared, and a hired girl brought into the house. 

It was six weeks before Dr. Bacon saw his patient 
again. He then could see no change in her condi- 
tion, but she claimed to be much better, and gave 
him great credit for her improvement. He accepted 
the flattery, though unconscious of having deserved 
it. He saw very clearly that he was dealing with a 
whimsical woman, but, not being absolutely certain of 
her condition, so varied the treatment that for four 
weeks her medicine consisted of bread pills and water, 
flavored with a few grains of asafetida. “Though 
horrid to take,” Susan said, “ tliis medicine has a fine 
effect,” but the doctor was still unable to detect in her 
condition any change of any kind. 

Susan alternated between her bed and the large 
well-cushioned sick-chair, slept well at night, and re- 
quired much attention during the day. In the mean- 


Sdsan on the Wane. 


77 


time she had become very talkative, especially when 
she herself was the subject of conversation. Dr. 
Bacon made several attempts to sound her troubles 
through tlie accounts she gave of them. He, how- 
ever, soon abandoned this expedient, as by compari- 
son he found that her statements made from time 
to time did not agree. After a year’s treatment he 
concluded that his patient’s trouble was not in her 
body, but in her mental habits, and, presenting to Mr. 
Quinby a moderate bill for his services, said, “ I don’t 
see that I am doing your wife any good ; you w^ould 
better try the skill of another doctor.” 

As Dr. Bacon was a very popular physician, Mrs. 
Quinby desired to retain him, but he refused to touch 
her case again. He quietly related to some friends 
the bread pill experiment, but had not the courage to 
communicate to Mr. Quinby what he regarded as the 
facts concerning liis wife’s sickness. Mrs. Quinby 
was, however, a little angered when the report was 
brought to her that the doctor ceased his visits be- 
cause he could not see that any tiling was the matter 
with his patient, and she petulantly ascribed it to his 
want of skill. 

Home affairs moved along in a haphazard way 
for some ^veeks, when Susan, about midnight, was 
taken violently ill, and leaving her in the care of 
the hired girl Mr. Quinby hastened to the near- 
est neighbor to get some one to go to town for 
the doctor, and for others to come to his house, per- 


78 Sickness as a Peofession. 

liaps to see Susan die, for she felt she surely must 
die. 

The children were wakened and taken to her room 
that she might give to them her farewell blessing. 
As Dr. Bacon entered the room she saluted him as 
follows : 

“ What ! did they send for you, Dr. Bacon ? I am 
told that you can never see that any thing is wrong 
•with me, and why did you come ? ” 

“ Madam, you are as liable to be sick as any body, 
and I am as ready to treat you as any one else.” 

The indignant spirit manifested by Susan relieved 
the doctor and all others of any fears they may have 
entertained in regard to the results of this sudden 
midnight attack. 

Through the gentle influence of Mr. Quinby the 
doctor was finally allowed to put his finger on Susan’s 
pulse and see her tongue. As he passed through the 
dining-room, the doctor had noticed baskets of apples, 
pears, and peaches, and concluded that a free use of 
them during the day was the sole cause of the slight 
stomach and bowel trouble he could discover, and he 
put a little white powder, probably soda, into hot 
water and gave it to her, which she drank. Then he 
left, saying, “ I think madam will be as well as usual 
in the morning.” 

The children returned to their beds, the neighbors 
went home, and all was quiet again in the Quinby 
cottage. 


Susan on the Wane. 


79 


After tins Dr. Bacon was frequently called to see 
Mrs. Quinby, but in nearly every case he contented 
himself by sending what purported to be medicine, 
and made but slight charges for his services. He 
eventually exchanged his country for a city practice — 
a great affliction to the entire community, as he was 
an honorable man and a skillful physician. 

But Mrs. Quinby could not well get along without a 
doctor. She was becoming confirmed in the habit of 
leaning upon him and his medicines, as a man for a 
long time accustomed to the practice of any course 
will be inclined to continue it when it has ceased to be 
of service. At the same time she was more and more 
losing her interest in the church, in her friends, and 
in the outside world. She was inclined to use all her 
waking hours and talking strength, whenever listeners 
could be found, to describe her aches and pains and 
prostrations and other troubles. If a half dozen of 
her neighbors were present, engaged in general con- 
versation, she took no interest in what was said, but 
watched for an opportunity to put in a statement of 
her sickness, past, present, and prospective. In this 
respect she made herself an unbearable nuisance 
which no skill could abate. Mrs. Connelby was an 
able, educated lady, a fine talker, and most people 
heard with delight the accounts she would give of 
her extensive travels at home and in Europe, but to 
Susan they were a great weariness. As her case was 
well known throughout the neighborhood, certain 


80 Sickness as a Profession. 

ladies resolved that they would, when visiting her, 
introduce such subjects as might enable them to hold 
the ground and awaken in her mind an interest in 
something besides herself. But as often as they tried 
they found they were dealing with a genius, and met 
defeat. Many kept away from the house on her ac- 
count, as her talk was so very disagreeable. One of 
her chief troubles was a neuralgia in her tongue, but 
it was never so disabled that she could not talk about 
herself. At times she would speak scarcely above a 
whisper, but any one sitting in an adjoining room 
could elicit an answer to any question, in a full, loud, 
clear tone of voice, bj^ referring to any of her suffer- 
ings. One day she was known to drag herself from 
her bedroom to the dining-room, leaning upon the 
chairs as she passed along the way, and finally to drop 
herself down into a cushioned rocker. In less than 
two minutes some one looking out the window said, 
‘‘There goes the doctor; who can be sick?” and in a 
moment she sprang out of her chair, passed quickly 
through the dining-room, then through the parlor, 
and peered through the window in search of the 
fast vanishing doctor. Self and doctor were 
thought of so much and at the same time that the 
one was really made to include the other. Her 
husband chastened himself to endure these things, 
because he felt that it was a Christian duty. The 
children had grown up with them, and, as a part of 
their daily life, thought nothing of them. 


Susan on the Wane. 


8i 


After the removal of Dr. Bacon the services of a 
needy young physician by the name of Solomon San- 
born were called into requisition. He discovered at 
a glance that Mrs. Quinby’s case had been grievously 
misunderstood. “Her liver is dormant,” he said, 
“ and through sympathy with it she has an affection 
of the heart; this trouble has reached her system 
generally, resulting in frequent prostrations, and, as a 
further trouble, her blood is much out of order. Her 
case is badly complicated, and, I fear, beyond the reach 
of medical skill, but it can be improved, and the lady 
made comfortable.” 

This young doctor’s ways were very winning, if 
not really fascinating, and Mrs. Quinby was pleased 
with him beyond expression. “He has,” she said, 
“ described my condition exactly, as if every organ 
and nerve had been exposed to his inspection.” 

He talked learnedly of every part of the diagnosis 
he had made of her diseases. “ The difficulties we 
have to overcome,” he said, “ arise largely from the 
complexities of the case ; time will be required, but 
it will not for the first three months be necessary for 
me to see ray patient more than three times a week.” 
He left but little medicine, but promised to bring 
more on his next visit, which he did. 

This was one of Mrs. Quinby’s happy days. At last 
a doctor was found who understood her case, his visits 
were to be frequent and regular, and the man’s tone 

of voice. and sympathetic nature would be, she felt, a 
6 


82 


Sickness as a Profession. 


balm to her soul. The thought even then entered 
the mind of Mr. Quinby that this young doctor was 
needy, was too confident, and had too much mouth, 
but he quickly banished such suggestions as unwor- 
thy of him as a man and a husband. Six months 
passed away, and Mr. Quinby found his wife about as 
she had been for a number of years, and paid a doc- 
tor’s bill of seventy-five dollars. Dr. Sanborn’s visits 
were discontinued at the end of the year. 

Soon after the dismissal of Dr. Sanborn a little 
episode occurred whicli was not soon forgotten. Two 
ladies, Mrs. Hays and Miss Follet, were in the habit 
of calling on Mrs. Quinby together, as each was 
some protection to the other against hearing the long 
details of Mrs. Quinby’s diseases. They had noticed 
that Helen was required to go into the chamber to 
wait upon her mother a great many times a day, and 
they feared that because of her tender years she 
would be injured by it, and they felt it their duty 
as friends to urge her to occupy a room on the lower 
floor. In reply to the statement Mrs. Hays made of 
the case, Mrs. Quinby said : 

“ I liad supposed the sick were to be Avaited upon 
according to their liking, and this chamber is the most 
pleasant room in the house ; I prefer to stay here.” 

“But Helen has not the strength of a woman. 
She is growing, and is tender, and if her health or 
constitution should be injured you would greatly 
regret it.” 


Susan on the Wane. 


83 


“ I know nothing could be as bad for Helen as it 
would be for me to be shut up below, when I greatly 
prefer to be cared for in this pleasant chamber. 
Helen’s life is no better than mine.” 

“But,” said Miss Follet with spirit, “Helen’s life 
need not be sacrificed for yours. The room below is 
pleasant, and as well furnished as tliis ; you can be as 
well cared for there as here, and with far less trouble. 
I think it is something that Mr. Quinby has to carry 
you up and down these stairs twice a day ; but that 
is his business and not ours, for we are thinking of 
Helen. She has but one life to live, and the idea that 
it should be unnecessarily sacrificed seems to me to 
be too bad.” 

“ O yes, the sick are a great trouble. I wonder 
why we can’t die.” 

“Nobody wants you to die; we desire that you 
should get well, and in the meantime we want your 
children to live too.” 

“ I think I have done enough for my children to 
entitle me to what little they can do for me. I don’t 
think Helen would thank you for your interference.” 

“ True, she might not,” said Mrs. Hays, “ but if 
we should save her from a life of misery because of 
broken health, a knowledge of the good deed done 
would be a sufficient compensation for us.” 

There was something in the tone of Mrs. Hays’s 
voice which touched Mrs. Quinby to the quick, made 
her angry, and revived her strength. Suddenly she 


84 Sickness as a Profession. 

swung out of bed, went down-stairs with a quick 
step, and threw herself on the bed in the sleeping- 
room below. Mr. Quinby happened to come in as 
his wife, in her dressing-gown, switched into the bed- 
room. The whole business then had to be explained 
to him. He said but little, but pondered much upon 
the scene. 

But another doctor must be called, and this time 
James Victor, a homeopathist, received the honor. 
After making a careful diagnosis of the case, he said : 

“ I discover, madam, no chronic difficulties in your 
constitution, and I think our school of practice exact- 
ly suited to your condition. I recommend quietness 
and rest, and I can, I hope, give you medicines which 
I think will build up your system and restore you in 
a short time to good health.” 

“ But Dr. Sanborn said he could make me comfort- 
able but that I could never be a healthy woman 
again, and I have the greatest confidence in his judg- 
ment.” 

‘‘ I would hardly say that to a patient, even if I 
thought so, as the discouraging effects would be 
injurious.” 

“I think it better to know the truth of a case 
than to hold out false hopes.” 

“We can’t alwa^’s tell exactly what the result of 
treatment will be, and it is wise for us to hope for 
the best. Hope is a better medicine than despair.” 

As he listened to this conversation Mr. Quinby 


Susan on the Wane. 


85 


was surprised to learn that his wife cherislied with 
pleasure the idea that she was a hopeless invalid, and 
the doctor thought it strange that his suggestions 
that Mrs. Quinby might be a healthy woman had 
given otfense. The uninitiated see in this bent of 
the mind evidence of insanity ; but the truth is when 
sickness becomes a profession it is guarded and 
cared for by its pursuers like any other profession. 
None can be found in any position more sensitive, 
or ready to take offense under criticism, than profes- 
sional invalids. They are ever looking for recogni- 
tion, pity, and sympathy in their calling, and if they 
do not receive it they charge the world with brutality 
or hard-hearted ness. 

The medicine of the homeopathist became a great 
favorite with Mrs. Quinby. She spent much of her 
time upon a couch in the sitting-room, whilst upon a 
stand, within her reach, phials of pellets abounded. 
She was ever praising her doctor and telling how 
miserable she was. His medicine, she affirmed, pro- 
duced the finest effect, and her diseases continued. 
She read the papers, but it was to keep track of patent 
medicines. In her room bottles and phials filled 
long shelves that reached across her room. Had the 
boxes of pills she took and the gallons of liquid she 
drank in any one month been real medicine they 
would have killed her in less than that time. 


86 


Sickness as a Profession. 


CEAPTEK YIL 

SUSAN INTENSIFIES HER MISERIES. 

“ Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 
Has nought to fear from outward blow — 

Who falls from all he knows of bliss 
Cares little into what abyss.” — Byron. 

At the end of two years Dr. Victor had received 
from the hard earnings of Mr. Quinby, for his services 
as physician, the sum of one hundred and ten dollars. 
His patient remained about the same, but he sickened 
and died. Susan had received such immense satisfac- 
tion from him and his medicines that she felt it was 
due from her to him that she attend his funeral. As 
it was some years since she had been seen in public, 
she intended that her visit at his house and appear- 
ance in the church at Auburn should be taken as a 
favorable testimonial to his skill as a man and to the 
homeopathic school of medicine. 

Our heroine of doctors and medicines never cared 
to see some of her neighbors, who frequently called 
at the Quinby cottage. “They are,” she said, “so 
unfeeling, so selfish, and so unsympathetic; they are 
strong, healthy, jolly, and happy, and care for nobody 
but themselves. They come in here and sit an hour 


Susan Intensifies her Miseries. 87 

prattling and laughing incessantly, and leave without 
even making an inquiry in regard to my health.” 

On one of his visits Dr. Victor had greatly offended 
Susan in this way : he had listened to her story of 
aches and pains so many times that he was weai*ied 
beyond further endurance, and finding present on one 
occasion a Mrs. Meadus, a lively, active genius, he 
directed all his conversation to her till ready to leave ; 
then, without examining his patient at all, or asking 
her a question, prepared her medicine, gave directions 
in regard to its use, and left. As he drove away Su- 
san petulantly complained of his conduct, and said: 

“As he asked me no questions in regard to my 
condition, nor made any examination of my case, I 
won’t take his medicine, for it will do me no good.” 

The presence of the doctor and the sympathetic 
attention he manifested went far with Susan to giv^e 
virtue to his medicines. 

But there was another class of callers which was 
ever welcome to the sick-room of Mrs. Quin by. Her 
favorite was a Mrs. Keturah Keifer, who made it a 
rule to see her dear friend Susan as often as once a 
week. Though a confirmed invalid herself, and liv- 
ing a mile away, that distance she could walk any 
time without difficulty. When by themselves, and 
there was no interruption, the conversation, repeated 
nearly or quite fifty times within a year, was about 
as follows : 

“Good morning, Mrs. Quinby, I thought I must 


88 


Sickness as a PiiOFESSioN. 


drag myself over to see you once more. Are you 
any better ? ” 

O no ! I’m a dreadful sufferer. My mouth and 
tongue were in such agony last night that James and 
Helen had to be up with me until one of the clock, 
heating bricks and wringing out hot cloths to put on 
my face. I am a little easier this morning, still very 
bad. How are you ? ” 

“I can’t see tliat I improve any. The doctor has 
not been to see me for live days, and Jim thinks his 
medicines do me no good. I think he don’t like to 
pay the doctor’s bills. He says he could make his 
breakfast out of his pills, and he makes all sorts of 
fun of them. He don’t think much of doctors any 
way. He was never sick, and don’t know the good of 
medicines.” 

“ Yes, I have found that the healthy and the stout 
can never sympathize with the sick.” 

“ O, Susan, the pain in my limbs is as great and 
constant as ever. Some days I can hardly ^valk. It 
seems to be working up into my hips, and sliould it 
get into my back I know I shall have the spinal 
affection, and perhaps tlie rickets. And all the time 
I feel so miserable I I think I never saw so great a 
sufferer as I am.” 

Tliis for Mrs. Keifer was quite a speech, much more 
than Susan liad bargained for, and she was a little 
troubled, as if she had found a rival who might strip 
her of her laurels. With unusual emphasis she said. 


Susan Intensifies her Miseries. 89 

“ O clear, I think 1 know how hard it is to be sick 
and in pain all the time, or so weak that you don’t care 
whether you live or die ! If stout, healthy men were 
not as unfeeling as brutes they could be a great help ; 
but many a time, that I might not disturb Mr. Quin- 
by, I have taken a room by myself and rolled about 
in distress till morning without troubling any one ; 
but for such generosity and self-denial one gets no 
thanks. The husband who waits upon his wife 
the most and the longest loves her the best. The 
wife who is strong, self-sufficient, and independent 
is not cared for ; at least so I have heard my grand- 
mother say. It is strange that husbands do not have 
more sympathy for their wives, and enjoy their so- 
ciety better as their sufferings call for special atten- 
tion.” 

‘‘ I know all about these things — you can tell me 
nothing.” 

“ But the doctors say my case is very peculiar, and 
I do not expect any one can comprehend what I 
suffer.” 

Susan has at last secured the inside track, and she 
intends to keep it. Mrs. Keifer is quick to notice 
this fact, but still hopes that her expressions of dis- 
tress and unselfish sympathy for Susan will elicit a 
corresponding feeling for herself. 

J^n a renewed attempt to excite Susan’s pity, Mrs. 
Keifer says, wdth sorrowful emphasis : 

know that you, Susan, are a great sufferer, and 


90 


Sickness as a Pkop’ession. 


often my heart aches for yon ; and if there was in me 
a sound spot I vv'oiild devote it to the soothing of 
your sorrows ; but what can I do for others, since I am 
myself nothing but a mass of aclies and pains ? 1 have 
not seen a well day for live years.” 

“ You are very kind, Mrs. Keifer, but I have no ex- 
pectation of ever meeting any one who is capable of 
sounding the depth of my miseries. Dr. Sanborn 
said he did not see how I could endure them and 
live.” 

Thus far Mrs. Qninby has not extended to Mrs. 
Keifer the least of the balm she craves. She is too 
greedy and parsimonious for that. Words of approval 
are too precious to be parted with at any price. Sym- 
pathy with Mrs. Keifer would be a sacrifice of that 
wdiich she most demands for herself. Still, Mrs. 
Keifer does not despair, but takes a new tack. She says : 

‘‘I have thought sometimes that the kind and sym- 
pathetic words of rny physicians did me quite as 
much good as their medicines; indeed, I am sure if I 
could have but one I should prefer the sympathetic 
words.” 

“That is my experience exactly. It does me no 
good for a doctor to rush in here, leave a little medi- 
cine, and go; or, if some prattling woman is present, 
give all his time and attention to her nonsense. I paf 
him for his services, and I want him to take time,^it 
down, and hear me state my case. I then feel that 
his visit has done me some good.” 


91 


Susan Intensifies her Miseries. 

In response to the door-bell the hired girl, at this 
juncture of affairs, conducts Mrs. Wood to the sitting- 
room : 

“Good-morning to you, ladies,” she said. “ I came 
by your place, Mrs. Keifer, and called for you, and am 
so glad to meet you here.” 

“ You will have to help yourself to a chair,” said 
Mrs. Quinby, “as I am too poorly to stir.” 

“ And I am as miserable as ever,” said Mrs. Keifer. 

“ I have had a terrible time for four days, and 
nothing seems to do me any good,” said Mrs. Wood. 
“Yesterday I came upon an old book that was fa- 
ther’s, and opened on some lines which were such an 
exact description of my expeilence that I thought I 
would copy them for you to i-ead and explain. I am 
not sure that I understand all the big words, and I 
think some of them must be a description of those 
pains I have which the doctor says he cannot under- 
stand. Here are the words : 

“ ‘ All maladies 
Of ghastly spasm, of racking torture, qualms 
Of heart-sick agony; all feverish kinds; 

Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs ; 

Intestine stone and ulcers ; colic pangs, 

Demoniac frensy, moping melancholy 
And moonstruck madness ; pining atrophy, 

^[arasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence; 

Dropsies, and astlimas, and joint-racking rheums.’” 

“Well, well, we are not the only ones who know 
what it is to be sick,” said Mrs. Quinb3^ 


92 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ I have never had the salt- rheum ; at least I never 
had more than a touch of it, but last summer I looked 
for it when my hair came out so badly,” said Mrs. 
Wood. 

“ I wish there was a doctor here to explain some of 
these strange words to us,” said Mrs. Keifer, “ for I 
think some of them must refer to those pains which 
we may look for in the future. This ‘ demoniac 
frenzy ’ and ‘ moonstruck madness ’ must refer to the 
mind as well as the body, and I am sure I have had 
a touch of something of that kind.” 

Mrs. Wood thought that ‘‘ marasmus” was an exact 
description of her feelings. 

“ But,” said Mrs. Quinby, “ I would like to know 
the name of that old author who understood our case 
so well.” 

“Milton,” said Mrs. Wood, “was his name — for it 
reminded me of Milt Sherman — and the book was 
something about paradise.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Keifer, “I have never found 
any sweeter paradise than I enjoy in telling over to 
the wdlling ears of sympathetic people my aches 
and pains, and I am sure this Milton had been a 
great — ” 

“ See here, ladies,” said Mrs. Quinby, “ I remember 
parsing when at school some extracts from Milton’s 
Paradise Lost^ and if this is the book you refer to 
you have not got the right idea about it ; it is not a 
medical work, but a poem about the sin of Eve and 


Susan Intensifies her Miseries. 93 

Adam. Here Eve has the pre-eminence over man, 
and I mention her first.” 

“Well, at any rate he seems to have known what 
w^e, as Eve’s daughters, have to suffer,” said Mrs. 
Wood; “and when I go home I will examine the 
book a little further.” 

The clock now struck eleven, and two mortal hours 
two of these ladies had spent together in parading 
before each other the miseries they suffered. Only a 
half hour of these precious moments had been shared 
by Mrs. Wood. The idea that a heavenly Father ex- 
isted who heard even the cry of the young ravens, or 
that earth had ever afforded mortals a blessing, did 
not occur to either of them. In the realm of woe they 
were aspiring rivals, struggling for the pre-eminence. 

“ Is it possible that it is eleven o’clock ? ” said Mrs. 
Wood, as the clock struck. “Well, I must hurry 
home, for I have nothing cooked for John’s dinner.” 

“ That is my predicament exactly,” said Mrs. 
Keifer. “ Can you lend me half of a loaf of bread, 
Susan? Jim will be up at noon, and if he finds no 
dinner he will be angry.” 

“ You must see the girl about that,” said Mrs. 
Quinby. 

The bread is produced, and the visitors leave. 
Susan doubles the doses of her medicine and ex- 
changes the sick-chair for the bed. 

As Mr. Quinby came in to dinner he found that Su- 
san had suffered a relapse, and required special atten- 


94 - 


Sickness AS A Profession. 


tioii. Aided by Helen lie worked over her for some 
liours, applying hot bricks and cloths wrung out of hot 
water to one place and another where pain was the 
severest, when suddenly she was seized with something 
like a spasm. The doctor was then sent for and the 
neighbors called in, perhaps to see her die. The 
presence of the doctor and of about a half dozen neigh- 
bors gave a really serious aspect to the case, and as a 
result Mrs. Quinby rallied ; in about an hour or so she 
was all right again, the people went home, and Mr. 
Quinby returned to his work in the field. 

For some years Susan had quite frequently made 
statements which produced on the mind of Mr. Quinby 
very painful impressions. He saw that her assertions 
were often the sheerest fabrications, containing not a 
sliadow of truth. He would not allow himself to 
believe that she intended to lie, and concluded that 
lier mind was led quite as much by fancy and imag- 
ination as by reason or reality, and he ventured seri- 
ously to raise the question, Has not imagination a 
great deal to do with her sickness?” Though not 
able to answer this question, he was prepared to ponder 
it in his heart. He put this fact with the fact of her 
sudden recovery as she looked out upon the doctor and 
the anxious faces of her neighbors who had assembled 
expecting to see her to die. He inquired still further, 

Do not these false statements, these sudden sick- 
nesses and recoveries, all spring from^the same source ? 
Is she not the victim of a morbid intellect ? Is not 


Susan Intensifies her Miseries. 95 

her whole life largely artificial ? But how can any 
one know this ? and if we knew that such was the 
case what could be done ? ” Thus the mind of Mr. 
Quinby had started along a new line of thought, ut- 
terly blind to the results which were to follow. 

It was but a few weeks after the death of Dr. 
Victor when Dr. Simpson was summoned to the bed- 
side of Mrs. Quinby. He came reluctantly, as at this 
time it was well known in the vicinity that this 
woman w’as a standing patient for any doctor who 
would give attention to her case. Stories were in 
circulation all through the neighborhood about the 
bread pills and colored water she had taken as medi- 
cine. The strongest sympathy existed every -where 
for the husband and children, because of the unneces- 
sary dead-weight which was upon their hands. Helen 
especially was pitied as the “ girl slave.” The boy 
fared better, as he was younger and the mother’s fa- 
vorite. Neighbors would talk and laugh among them- 
selves about Mrs. Quinby’s sickness, but not one of 
them possessed the honesty and courage to express 
these sentiments to the husband or the invalid. The 
fear of giving offense made hypocrites of them all. If 
they did not speak lies with tlieir lips they acted lies 
whenever they treated Mrs. Quinby as an invalid. 

After a careful examination of his patient Dr. Simp- 
son decided that she possessed a sound constitution 
with two slight exceptions: she was a little dyspeptic 
and there was in her system a touch of neuralgia. He 


96 Sickness as a Profession. 

found tlie worst part of her case to be the condition of 
lier mind. The least hint he gave that she could be a 
healthy woman she resented with anger. She cherished 
the idea of the hopelessness of her condition as her first 
and greatest consolation. She was settled and fixed 
in the conviction that she was a doomed invalid for life, 
and fully reconciled to her lot. The presence of doc- 
tors and the use of medicines she craved as she craved 
nothing else that earth could afford. A sick-room with 
a doctor in it was a little paradise to her. She looked 
to medicine for support as the healthy do to bread 
and meats. The doctor found that this demand for 
medicine was made by the condition of the mind, not 
the body. For her stomach trouble he insisted upon 
a careful diet and exercise in the open air after eating. 
These prescriptions did not please Susan. She wanted 
medicine and the presence of the doctor. To answer 
her demand he made her bread pills flavored with 
rhubarb, Avhich she afterward asserted had done her 
great good. But she preferred to have her medicine 
mostly in a liquid form, as she could “ take it easier,” 
she said. The doctor gratified her in this respect, and 
prepared for her a two-ounce phial of colored water. 
As usual, Susan had conquered. She disregarded the 
sound advice the doctor gave her, and, as formerly, 
again felt that medicine Avas doing her much good. 

Dr. Simpson was a conscientious man and hated 
shams. He did not like to run up large bills against 
Mr. Quinby, and as a matter of economy prepared a 


Susan Intensifies her Miseries. • 97 

half pint of colored water, with instructions for Mrs. 
Quinby to take three drops three times a day, and sent 
it to her, promising to call and see her before the 
supply was exhausted. This did not please Susan, as 
she had often found her doctors words of sympathy 
so soothing. These morsels of comfort she would 
often repeat to her callers and visitors: “You are 
such a great sufferer, I don’t see how you can endure 
it,” said Dr. Victor. “ To be stricken down in youth 
and made an invalid for life is terrible,” said Dr. San- 
born ; and many other forms of expression she pre- 
tended to quote which every one knew were the purest 
inventions of her own. 

It is difficult for any one who has not been on the 
ground, and studied the case month after month in 
the full light of facts, to form a correct idea of the 
condition of Mrs. Quinby at this time. Some of her 
neighbors thought she was a point-blank, out-and-out 
hypocrite of the meanest species; but such charge 
was untrue and unjust. To understand correctly the 
nature of her case her whole life must be taken into 
consideration. Every thing that lives is what it grows 
to be, and Susan’s condition was not the result of an 
act of her will, but of the growth of her life time. 
The antecedents of these results were many, and they 
had been in operation from her childhood. Susan 
mistook the condition of her mind for sickness of the 
body ; sickness calls for the doctor and his medicines, 
and some doctors think first of all of cures, and others 
7 


98 Sickness as a Peofession. 

of fees. Mrs. Qninbj bad had an abundance of both 
kinds. Some of them she had outlived, and if there 
was no change she might survive many more. 

Nearly all her life she had been a care, a perplex- 
ity, an expense, and an incumbrance to all who had 
had any thing to do with her ; but to all this long array 
of facts she was happily oblivious. She now even took 
the pleasing unction to her soul that to her husband 
and children she was a daily benediction. But few 
wives and mothers gave their husbands and children 
so many opportunities for healthful and delightful 
exercise by both day and night as she. Had their 
expressions of gratitude been a little more demonstra- 
tive they would thereby have been exalted in her 
estimation. This was her waking dream. 

Such were the antecedents of the night in which 
the great explosion took place in the Quinby family 
on the discovery of the bread pill and colored water 
shams and frauds. When once the true light broke 
in upon the mind of Mr. Quinby it seemed to him as 
if scales had fallen from his eyes, and the past six 
years presented quite a new meaning. He was aston- 
ished at himself that he had not understood the case 
before. He could excuse the policy Dr. Simpson had 
pursued only on the ground that he desired to avoid 
the domestic broil he had witnessed; but in his judg- 
ment the tumult and hullabaloo Susan had produced 
was but a little incident in the pathway to a better 
condition of affairs. So far from being in the least 


Susan Intensifies her Miseries. 99 

dismayed at the case before him, such was the clear- 
ness of his faith in a good outcome that it brought 
him joy. 

It may be that Mr. Quinby was so thoroughly 
wearied with the experience of the past six years that 
any change would have been a relief to his mind. 
His confidence in the skill, integrity, and friendship 
of Dr. Simpson remained unshaken, and he could 
still look to him for counsel and help. Susan’s case 
was in his own hands, and his duty, however painful, 
he was fully resolved to perform. He felt that he 
had entered upon a new life — a life fraught with the 
gravest responsibilities. Dr. Simpson’s instruction 
was ever fresh in his mind, and commended itself to 
his own good judgment. 

His children were old enough to know something 
of what was going on, and yet he was anxious to 
shield them from every evil influence which might 
arise from the trouble. Their feelings of reverence 
and respect for their mother must not be tarnished, 
and the public must have nothing to do with his do- 
mestic affairs. 


100 


Sickness as a Pkofession. 


CHAPTER nil. 

SUSAN TEMPEST-TOSSED. 

“ The wildest ills that darken life 
Are rapture to the bosom’s strife ; 

The tempest in its blackest form 

Is beauty to the bosom’s storm.” — Eastbubne. 

At the time of this great rupture in the Quinby 
family the two children, Helen and Charles, were re- 
spectively about six and eight years of age. Both 
were healthy, bright children, and greatly beloved by 
their parents. The mother was to the daughter the 
incarnation of authority, and to the son a model of in- 
dulgence. Her iron and arbitrary will had cut down 
into Helen’s nature in such a way that she constantly 
felt its presence, whether at home or abroad. It pos- 
sessed for her the attribute of ubiquity, and she felt 
that the object of her existence was that her mother 
might be waited upon. With childish ways the moth- 
er knew no sympathy, and she allowed her children 
but the slightest indulgence. As if conscious of the 
mistake made in her own education, her motto was : 
“ Children must be subdued — must be conquered. 
Their wills must be broken.” Dina, on the other hand, 
was companionable and indulgent ; the children were 
pleased to be in her company. This fact occasioned 


ScsAN Tempest-tossed. 


101 


the beginning of Susan’s jealousy of Miss Hopkins. 
In lier husband’s compliments of the hired girl’s 
cooking, and in the pleasure her children found in her 
company, she saw an aggregation of wrongs which 
her selfish and conceited nature could not endure. 
But good grew out of this fact, for at the time the 
storm broke out in the family they were absent with 
her at Mrs. Meadus’s, and knew nothing of it. 

Though the clock had long since struck the hour of 
midnight, when Dr. Simpson left for his home Mr. 
Quinby sat a while and meditated upon the situation, 
assuring himself that the course to be pursued was 
right and clear to his understanding. 

What the thoughts were which passed through the 
mind of Susan we can know only as they were reflected 
in her subsequent conduct. She was probably too 
much agitated to mature and decide upon any definite 
plan of action. As she left the room she was too 
furiously angry for reflection of any kind. Mingled 
thought and feeling probably revolved about the point 
that she was the worst abused woman that had ever 
lived ; that her husband and Dr. Simpson had entered 
into a conspiracy to degrade her, and that her neigh- 
bors for months had been laughing over the well- 
known fact that she had been taking bread pills and 
colored water as a cure for whims and other mental 
diseases. Her utter helplessness, affording no outlet 
to tempestuous feelings, only increased their intensity. 
She probably resolved that as her real sickness was 


102 Sickness as a Profession. 

discredited she would convince them that she was an 
invalid— a confirmed invalid, and not a hypocrite. 
Again and again she resolutely assured herself that 
she was sick, tried to feel sick, and resolved that med- 
ical treatment she would have ; but disgust at the 
thought of the bread pills nearly broke this resolu- 
tion. Her reflections along this line were no doubt 
strengthened by what she was then really suffering 
from indigestion, as the result of having taken no ex- 
ercise after eating a heavy dinner of pork and beans. 

As the next morning came affairs about the house 
were in appearance as serene as ever. Mr. Quinby 
was putting every thing in readiness for a full day’s 
work, and Dina, assisted by Helen and Charles, was 
caring for the breakfast and the chores. Mr. Quinby, 
finding his bedroom door still locked, as breakfast was 
ready, said to Dina : 

“ Susan prefers not to get up to breakfast, and you 
need not in any way disturb her.” 

When the children left for school at about half past 
eight all was quiet about the house, though Dina felt 
intuitively that there was something in the air she 
did not like. 

“ Ding, ding, ding dong ding, dingle ding ding ! ” 
It is ten of the clock, and the bell is ringing most 
furiously from the chamber window, but it is disre- 
garded. Mr. Quinby makes no response, but keeps 
on with his work. A short time after this he notices 
Dina coming across the field with the greatest pos- 


S USAN T EMPEST-TOSSED. 


103 


sible haste, and as she came near it was seen that she 
was weeping convulsively and scarcely able to speak 
a word. Mr. Quinby finally got hold of a few broken 
sentences which signified that Susan had called her 
every thing that was vile and mean ; had ordered her 
to go for Dr. Collins, then go home and never return. 
Mr. Quinby said : 

“ You had better go home for the present, Dina ; 
tell your mother what has happened. Say no more 
about it, and I will see you in a few days and make 
every thing right.” 

Mr. Quinby then kept on with his work. 

Before noon the bell rang out of the chamber win- 
dow again more furiously than ever, but it received 
no attention. On the part of Mr. Quinby there 
was no agitation, because he was supported by clear 
convictions of truth and a steady resolution. He felt 
a real pity for Susan, and was anxious that her tow- 
ering passion should subside that he might see her. 
Here he failed fully to comprehend her case. She 
was not only angry, but she had been degraded in her 
own eyes, and felt that she could recover her self- 
respect only by revenge. This passion had been 
gratified in part by abusing and discharging the hired 
girl and calling another doctor, but she could never 
be fully satisfied till she had caused some lightning- 
bolt to strike her husband. She thought half aloud 
to herself : 

“ He will surely be in at noon, but instead of 


104 


Sickness as a Profession. 


finding a fine dinner ready for him he will meet noth- 
ing but such arrows as my tongue can send.” 

Though once sprightly and sensible as a conversa- 
tionalist, Mrs. Quinby had become a very tedious 
talker. The steady concentration of mind upon self 
for six years had drawn it away from all other topics, 
and the range of her information had become very 
limited. Her superior faculty of speech still re- 
mained, but, in the absence of both words and ideas, 
she was given to wearisome repetitions. She was 
unable to utter a clear-cut sentence, then stop ; but her 
tongue, once started, would continue to run on indefi- 
nitely, or as long as there w^as any one present to 
listen. After setting her mouth a-going she would 
often seem to go off and leave it ; but such was not to 
be the case tliis time. As Mr. Quinby, on his return 
from the corn-field, entered the dining-room he found 
his wife sitting in her easy-chair, pale, haggard, 
hair undressed, having a spiteful look, and covered 
by that abomination of the household, a hubbard 
dress. Without having time to speak he was saluted, 
with a sharp, metallic, twang-like voice, as follows. 
The sarcasm was a little flat, but it was intended to 
bite and hurt : 

“ I guess you’ll have to go hunting to-day for Di- 
na’s nice dinner, for I don't see it here. Dina herself 
don’t seem to be about anywhere, and of course you 
won’t expect her to get a nice dinner if she isn’t 
here ; and you will have to hunt for it where she is, 


Susan Tempest-tossed. 


105 


or somewhere else, for she is not here. I sent her 
for Dr. Collins more’n two hours ago, and she hasn’t 
got back, and if she ever comes here again I’ll 
put her out of the house. Your wife, who was never 
sick, can get the dinners and do all the work. So we 
do not need Dina any more ; and, as she’s gone, I say 
let her stay away, and we can help ourselves. As for 
me, you will soon be rid of me, and then ^mu can 
have nice dinners as much as you want, and never 
come in and find the table empty, as you do to-day ; 
and if you blame such a wreck as I am for not get- 
ting you a dinner you must do so, and that would not 
be more brutal than you have been before, and I look 
for nothing better at any time ; and if Dr. Simpson 
ever comes to this house again I’ll shut the door 
against him and lock it. The villain made you be- 
lieve that for six months he had given me for medi- 
cine nothing but bread pills and colored water, and 
you and he got together to twit me of it, and tell me 
that all this time I w?is only pretending to be sick ! ” 
Whilst this speech was being delivered Mr. 
Quinby quietly washed and combed his hair. lie 
was a little disappointed in Susan. She was hardly 
equal to herself. Her oration was not sufficiently 
explosive. She had meditated upon it too much. 
It was like burned powder — it would not explode a 
second time. The razor tone which gives effect to 
such diatribes was wanting. 

Without making any reply, or showing any sign of 


106 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

resentment, Mr. Qninby helped himself to what he 
needed of the abundance Dina had left in the pantry, 
and returned to the field. 

On their return from school Helen and Charley 
passed the corn-field in which their father was at 
work, and as was their custom they climbed the fence 
to spend a little time with him before going to the 
house, and they found no more agreeable compan- 
ionship tlian his. After awhile the father said : 

“Helen, I think you will have to help your mother 
get the supper to-night. Dina has gone home, to stay 
some days, and you must be ‘ maid of all work ’ now.” 

“ Why, papa, 1 can set the table and get tea as 
well as Dina,” and away she started for the house, 
to play woman, leaving Charley with his father, as he 
had taken to weeding out the corn. 

On his return to the house Mr. Quinby found tea 
ready, but Susan was not present. “Mamma,” said 
Helen, “ has had her supper, and we will have to eat 
without her.” As this was not an unusual occurrence, 
the children were not surprised, and they asked no 
questions. Supper over, the work and chores were 
soon done, and the Quinby cottage was as quiet as 
could be desired. 

At an early hour the children retired, and Mr. 
Quinby alone sat in the dining-room meditating and 
awaiting developments. An hour or so passed away, 
and the silence of midnight prevailed. The faithful 
dog came into the house, went to his master, looked 


Susan Tempest-tossed. 


107 


up in liis face, as if he would know his trouble. 
After receiving a few caresses he quietly laid him- 
self down at his feet, not fully satisfied that all was 
right. Finally, Susan with a languishing step en- 
tered the room and delivered a little speech which 
\vas full of prophecies in regard to her future. Her 
tone was more of the wailing and less of the spiteful 
order than at noon. Mr. Quinby listened in si- 
lence till she was through, and then with a firm but 
gentle tone of voice said : 

‘‘ Susan, now hear me for a few moments, if you 
never do again. The situation demands a little cool 
reflection, and not passion.” 

‘‘ How can one help — ” 

“ Hold ! Susan, hear me, for I must speak. For six 
years you have occupied the bed and your sick-chair 
and have been known by your neighbors as an in- 
valid. The doctors’ bills, to say nothing of the time 
spent, amount to five hundred and sixty-five dollars, 
and I am satisfied that in all that time you have not 
taken flve dollars’ worth of real medicine. The 
doctors have imposed upon you and run up their 
heavy bills against me. Their excuse is, you de- 
manded medicine, and they gave you that which 
would satisfy your mind and do your body no harm. 
But the end of all that has come — no part of it can 
ever be repeated while I live. Whenever you need 
a doctor and medicine you will have them, but only 
then. See where we are. This house and farm con- 


108 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

tain the hard earnings of your life and mine, and 
a more pleasant home no one need to have. It is 
worth $8,000, but there is an incumbrance of $469, 
drawing interest. Year after year I have vainly 
struggled to reduce it, and this must be done, oi’ we 
go into the street and others take possession of this 
house. The money I have paid for bread pills and 
colored water has been more than enough to lift us 
out of debt. So far as your real health and com- 
fort are concerned, I intend in the future, as I have 

done in the past, to spare neither time nor money. 
Your condition is really worse than you suppose, for 
your trouble has its seat in the mind, and not tlie 
body.” 

“ Do you think me insane ? Please condescend to 
tell me exactly what my mental affection is.” 

‘‘ Be patient, listen kindly, and I will ; and every 
intelligent physician in the land would confirm my 
statement. During the last six years you have 

thought of yourself to the exclusion of nearly 

every thing else. Your wants, your feelings, your 
aches, and your pains have monopolized your mind, 
and no constitution can long endure such self-de- 
vouring treatment. The doctors say that by contin- 
uous direction of the thoughts to any one part of 
the body we can create a sensation there, and finally 
a pain, and by constantly thinking of any disability 
we can greatly aggravate it. To be ever talk- 
ing about a pain, and hearing others talk about it, 


SliSAN Tempi^st-tossed. 


109 


only makes matters worse ; and these things consti- 
tute largely the life you have lived for the past six 
years. The fault may be in part mine, for I had no 
clear idea of the nature of your condition. Had 
means been used years ago to draw your mind away 
from yourself, success might have been easily 
achieved, and a world of trouble avoided. Get the 
idea out of your mind that you are an invalid doomed 
to perpetual sickness, and you are well started on the 
highway to complete recovery. As your trouble is 
mental, in order to become a cheerful woman you 
have only to will to have it so ; and without this 
action on your part there is nothing in medicine that 
can do you any good. Ho one pretends that you 
have acted the part of a hypocrite, and that your 
sickness is a mere pretense ; the facts are, the trouble 
is in your mind, and as you feel the effects in your 
body you fancy that the disease is there. 

“How, it is the doctor’s direction that you let medi- 
cine alone, devote a part of every day to reading — 
read history, biography, good fiction, any thing that 
will interest you — spend some time every week among 
the vegetables and flowers in the garden, often ride 
about the country, and say nothing about diseases. 
At the same time, take your place in church again, 
and become interested in all its work ; lay to heart 
the important matter of the education of our chil- 
dren ; cherish an ambition to manage your household 
affairs; help me to pay off the incumbrance which 


110 


Sickness as a Profession. 


is on this property, that we may feel sure that we 
shall always have a home, and in one way and an- 
other keep your mind occupied with things not your- 
self. The burdens 1 have carried for many years 
are very heavy, and I need your counsel and co- 
operation. 

“These, in outline, are the considerations which 
have forced themselves upon my attention, and I 
trust that you will lay them to heart, as all that is 
valuable to us and our children is at stake.” 

Mrs. Quinby rose from her soft-cushioned chair, 
and, as she retired from the room, said : 

“ I trust, Mr. Quinby, that as a humble and obedient 
wife, I have listened, not only in silence, but with 
attention, to all you have had to say. Good night.” 

As she shut the door of her chamber, the click of 
the lock was distinctly heard, and after some time 
spent in reflection Mr. Quinby took a bed in another 
room. 


Susan the Victim of Strategy. 


Ill 


CHAPTEE IX. 

SUSAN THE VICTIM OF Hf^R HUSBAND’S STRATEGY. 

“ Forbear sharp speeches to her, she’s a lady, 

So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes. 

And strokes death to her.” — Shakespeare. 

There is no family which has not at some time use 
for the veil of secrecy, and it is a sacrilegious hand 
which 'svould expose to view the inner life of any home 
— either its joys or sorrows. Suffice it to say that, 
without speaking of her purposes, Susan left home, 
and went to her father’s with her complaints. After 
hearing her story, her mother impatiently said : 

“ I don’t see that you have any thing to get mad 
about, except that James would not allow the doctor 
any longer to feed you on bread pills and colored 
water as medicines.” 

After staying three weeks with her parents, and 
hearing nothing from her husband, Susan requested 
her father to see and request him to visit them, and 
take her home again. This the husband flatly refused 
to do, but said, 

“ When Susan gets ready to come home we shall 
be pleased to see her.” 

After an absence of six weeks, unheralded, she 
came back again. This running away and coming 


112 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

back business was the most mortifying chapter in 
Susan’s life; but she submitted, and after this the 
correction of other follies became more easy. 

Mr. Quinby was as tender and gentle as a lamb, 
and yet, on occasion, he could at the same time be as 
hard as flint, and as Arm as a wall. Susan had found 
the first and nearest part of his nature, and played upon 
it for six years ; she had now by accident been brought 
into contact with tlie other side, and the unexpected 
collision was terrible to her. Because he had yielded 
to a silken thread, and been led at her will so long a 
time, she had indulged in the satisfaction that she was 
mistress of the manse. Her sense of superiority had 
been stimulated and fed to excess, whilst her range of 
thought had become restricted by a continuous think- 
ing of self. Her life had consisted very largely in 
being noticed, petted, and cared for. To be the ob- 
ject of thought and solicitude was onl}^ the compli- 
ment she felt her superior nature demanded. To 
draw sympathy to herself was a trade she learned 
early in life, and it was a luxury to ply it as well as 
to reap its fruits. The mental condition she had at- 
tained was the result of the growth of years, and she 
really believed it to be normal. She felt that in 
some way the doctor had deceived her husband, and 
that she had been outrageously injured. The false 
and fictitious she had acted till they had become real 
— the life she lived — and she knew no other. Could 
she on the bread pill discovery have got away from 


Susan the Victim of Strategy. 113 

self sufficiently to have taken a look at self, she would 
have seen that mind, as well as body, was affected by 
self-absorption. Her trouble was a sense of degrada- 
tion, and mortified pride had reacted in madness and 
vengeance. The elements involved were strong on 
both sides; they were badly complicated, and the 
issues of the case seemed uncertain. However, Mr. 
Quinby was happy in his sanguine hopes and reso- 
lute in his purposes. It was easy for him to believe 
that nothing was impossible which ought to be done. 

A year or more passes away ; Susan neither sees a 
doctor nor takes medicine. Physically she is neither 
better nor worse ; she alternates between quietness and 
long fits of moroseness. No debts have been paid, but 
a gentle horse and easy carriage stand idle in the barn. 
She will ride neither alone nor with her husband or 
children. Neither strategy nor temptation can move 
her, but, on the whole, there is improvement. What 
time Susan had spent thinking of the cruelty of her 
husband and the doctor her mind was drawn away 
from herself, and this incident happily served as the 
beginning of her recovery. She could not bear to 
think that her neighbors were aware of the fact 
that during the past six years she had taken at least 
a peck of bread pills and some gallons of colored 
water as medicine, for which her husband had paid 
more than five hundred dollars to the doctors ; and 
for this reason her mind recoiled from the contin- 
uous thinking of self as seen in that light. Her 
8 


114 Sickness as a Profession. 

inordinate self-conceit had been terribly shaken by 
its burden of shame. In fact, her feelings somewhat 
revolted both from doctors and from their medicine 
as well as from herself. 

These faint reactions in the mind of Susan her 
husband noted with the greatest interest, and, with 
concealed motives, did what he could to make the 
most of them. All talk of diseases and doctors had 
been banislied from tlie family. It was a remark- 
able and hopeful fact tliat on two occasions the 
mother had been known to take a playful interest 
in some of Charley’s pranks. She listened patiently 
one day while he tried to coax her to ride out with 
him. Helen was now budding into a noble woman- 
hood, and to her the mother gave attention, and 
manifested much solicitude. It was manifest that 
she was really finding a world outside of herself, and 
that it did not exist solely for her. The hired girl 
had refused to return, no other had been procured, 
and the family had done its own work, all parties 
having had a hand in it more or less. Thus mat- 
ters had moved along from month to month, hope- 
fully if not most pleasantly. Had it not been for 
the purchase of the extra horse, a payment of one 
hundred and sixty dollars would have been made on 
the farm. Mr. Quinby was not a man of many words, 
and during all this time he had not spoken ungently to 
his wife. Ilis strength lay in his calm and wordless de- 
terminations. The freedom of thought and action he 


Susan the Victim of Stkategy. 115 

claimed for himself was awarded to others, and he 
refused to be either master or slave. 

Mrs. Quinby was very neat about her person, and 
whatever cooking or housework she did was done 
well. As a consequence, when she was about the 
1 louse at all she was in a presentable condition. On 
the first of September, this year, in the afternoon, as 
she responded to the door-bell, the presence of an 
old beau, and friend of her father’s family, surprised 
as well as greatly pleased her. 

“Well, Sue, how do you do?” were the words of 
his greeting. 

“Why, Ed! Where on earth have you come 
from?” 

“ From the Badger State, of course. How are 
James and the children ? ” 

“They are well, as usual. The children are in 
school, and James is in the field, hard at work, as 
usual.” 

“Well, Sue, I am glad to see you; never saw 
you looking better. Some people do improve in 
looks as they advance in years.” 

“Just as if I was not always good-looking! I 
guess you have forgotten what you used to think. 
But I had forgotten to inquire about Mag and the 
babies — how are they ? ” 

“ Maggie is as gay as a lark. She seldom has an 
ache or a paui, walks to church every Sunday, and 
thinks our boy and six girls are the prettiest, the 


116 


Sickness as a Pkofessiqn. 


smartest, and the most roguish children to be found 
in Wisconsin.” 

“ What ! Seven children ! ” 

“ Yes ; and it would do you good to see Maggie 
proudly parade them out on the floor, and point to 
the stairway steps they make, and boast that there is 
not a break in the order.” 

‘‘ My Helen was one year old when you were mar- 
ried ; only eleven years, and seven children ! ” 

Yes, seven ; and it would do you good to see us 
troop into church together.” 

‘‘Sure enough, I would like to see the flock, but 
I wouldn’t swap my boy and girl for the whole of 
them. Helen is just a little woman. We keep no 
girl, and with her help I do all the work ; and Char- 
ley is exactly his father over again. Give him a dime 
in the morning, and he will work it into a shilling 
before night. But I will call James ; he will be so 
glad to see you.” 

“ Better not call him away from his work. I. will 
walk out into the fleld where he is.” 

“ There is a better way than that. Helen can get 
tea, and if you can harness the horse we will ride 
over to the old school-house, and come back the cross- 
road, where Janies is at work, and bring him home. 
Poor fellow! he’ll be tired; for he works early and 
late.” 

“ All right ; and for such a ride there will be none 
too much time.” 


Susan the Yictim of Strategy. 117 

Nothing could have been more opportune than this 
call on Mrs. Quinbj by Mr. Phelps. They had, as 
children, played together, attended the same school, 
the same Sunday-school and church, and for a year, 
while at the academy, he was to her a pleasant and 
convenient escort ; yet they were never lovers. Ed- 
ward Phelps was one of ten children, and such was 
the contrast between Susan’s exactions and those of 
his five sisters that he was not slow to see that a lover’s 
relation was not desirable, and Susan had observed 
that in the Phelps family every one was for himself. 

“I can’t see,” she said, “how people can be so 
selfish.” 

In less than five minutes Mr. Phelps and Mrs. 
Quinby, now children or young people again, and full 
of the recollections and feelings of other days, were 
on the road to the scenes of the childhood of both. 
The route took them through a picturesque country, 
made such by a deep gorge cut through slate and shale 
formations by a stream on which at that time three 
saw-mills and a flouring-mill were in use. Ten years 
of absence had blotted nothing from the mind of Mr. 
Phelps. 

As only three hours were at the command of the 
party for this excursion, Mr. Phelps could do but 
little more than announce himself to the acquaint- 
ances he met and pass on. Susan did not even alight 
from the carriage to salute her own people. On their 
return, as the sun was going down, they came in 


118 Sickness as a Profession. 

sight of Mr. Quinby as lie was leaving liis field, and 
met him at the gate. In appearance he was never 
more surprised than when he saw the party which 
awaited his approach. The salutation he received 
from his wife reminded him of other years, for she 
seemed to be herself once more. Her voice rang out 
with much of its former music and power. Phelps 
and Quinby were old-time friends, and this was their 
first meeting for ten years. 

In this sudden turn which affairs had taken Mr. 
Quinby could see what no one else suspected to exist 
or even to have been thought of ; he seemed to for- 
get any unpleasantness he had experienced in the 
past and silently to enjoy the triumph of his patience 
and policy. Results exceeded his anticipations, and 
apparently Providence had united with him in re- 
storing his wife to reason and health, llis philoso 
phy taught him that excitement must be sustained 
by being based on permanent elements, and not car- 
ried too far, or there would be a disastrous reaction. 

The evening was spent in talking over an impor- 
tant financial scheme, which answered as a reason 
to both Mr. Phelps and Susan why this journey from 
Wisconsin had been made to Auburn. For his wife’s 
sake Mr. Quinby had contemplated important changes 
in his business by finding a home in the far west. 
He had interested Mr. Phelps in the undertaking, 
and yet nothing practically was to be done if Susan 
could be restored to health without it. This business 


Susan the Victim of Strategy. 119 

project was a revelation to her. It did not strike her 
mind favorably. She could not bear to leave the as- 
sociations of a life-time. She was astonished that the 
affair had been so thoroughly matured and nothing 
said to her about it, and at that moment she resolved 
that in the future she would know more about her 
husband’s affairs. The trio, with Helen and Charles, 
who were equally interested parties, with a map 
spread before them, sat around a table, till after mid- 
night, discussing the various aspects of this project. 
Helen took sides with her father, and thought it 
would be nice to go west. The idea of having a 
pony of his own, and riding over the prairies caring 
for great herds of cattle, suited Charley exactly ; but 
Mr. Phelps could not see that Colorado was a good 
place for girls who were to be educated, and her own 
home never appeared so dear to Susan as then. What 
Mr. Quinby said of the debt he had not been able to 
pay only intensified her love for home. Slie even 
suggested plans of self-denial for meeting this obli- 
gation, As a tub thrown to a whale, this scheme of 
a home in the far west among buffaloes and Indians 
had thus far served its purpose well, and still more, if 
necessary, must be made out of it. 


120 


Sickness as a Profession. 


CHAPTEP X. 

SUSAN JUBILANT AT A PARTY. 

“ How deep, how thorough felt the glow 
Of rapture kindling out of woe! 

How exquisite one single drop 

Of bliss that sparkling to the top 

Of misery’s cup — how keenly quaffed.” — MoORE. 

At a rather late breakfast the next morning Mr. 
Phelps announced that the following Saturday (this 
was Tuesday) he must spend with friends in Chicago, 
and then he inquired how he could see the greatest 
number of old neighbors in the shortest time. 

“ I have in my head a plan that will fix that mat- 
ter all right,” responded Susan ; “ an impromptu 
party will we get up at our house, and we will invite 
Tom, Dick, Harry, and all the rest.” 

“ Don’t do that,” said Mr. Phelps. “ Too much work 
and trouble altogether.” 

“ How much time will you need to prepare ? ” in- 
quired Mr. Quinby. 

“We can get ready as soon as Thursday ; one day 
will be sufficient for that.” 

“ Yery well. Whom will you have to help you ? ” 

“ Hot any body. Helen will enjoy the party very 
much. I will keep her and Charles out of school a 


Susan Jubilant at a Party. 121 

couple of days ; they will hold their own with their 
classes all the same.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Phelps ; “ Susan thinks her boy 
and girl worth more than my seven pairs of black 
eyes, and she means to prove it.” 

“ I suppose your seven are all well enough for 
you,” said Mrs. Quinby. 

“ Let the children speak for themselves,” said Mr. 
Quinby ; but let us complete the arrangements for 
the party. Whom will you invite ? ” 

Any body that will suit you and Ed,” said the 
unselfish Susan. 

Surely the pendulum of her nature was swinging 
back. 

“ You and Ed name them,” said Mr. Quinby, tak- 
ing a pencil out of his pocket, “ and I will write down 
their names.” 

“Put down,” said Susan, “Tim and Jen.” (Tim- 
othy Dwight Johnson and Eugenia, his wife). “Ed 
will want to see Jen, as she was an old friend of his.” 

“ Good ! ” said Mr. Phelps. “ That is well thought 
of. Jen was a gamy girl, and of infinite wit. She 
was always equal to any emergency anywhere ; and 
yet she was always thoughtful and conscientious. If 
out Saturday night, she kept watch of the clock and 
took time to get home before twelve. She was much 
the same after she joined the church, only she played 
less tricks, and leavened her fun with a good deal of 
religion. I liked Jen ; so did every body else. The 


122 Sice:xess as a Profession. 

blues could never stay where she was. The fact is, 
no one can enjoy good health unless cheerful, wide- 
awake, and occasionally gushing over with some sort 
of fun. I remember Jen dropped oft many things 
after that great revival, l^obody could get her to 
a dancing party or to play cards; but in one w^ay 
and another her buoyant spirits were ever bubbling 
over as before.” 

“I had supposed,” said Susan, ‘‘that good health 
was required to produce buoyant spirits.” 

“That may be so in some cases, but generally mind 
has more to do with the body than body with mind. 
Mind was made to be king and lord over all. If 
mind be right it goes a great way to keep the body 
right. Mind unoccupied preys upon the body like a 
vulture, and soon eats the life out of it. Did you 
ever know Jen to have a sick day ? ” 

“ Ho,” said Susan ; “ she is still as playful as a 
kitten, and as tough as a grizzly bear.” 

To the above discussion Mr. Quinby had listened 
with much interest, and it having reached the exact 
point desired he suggested that they continue their 
arrangements for the party. 

“ Of course we must have Bob and Eush,” said Su- 
san. Eush had been Susan’s room-mate at school, 
and she ever continued her fast friend ; she was then 
the wife of Eobert Frazer, a prosperous trader in cat- 
tle and a keeper of a blooded-stock farm four miles 
south of Auburn. 


Susan Jubilant at a Party. 123 

“Yes, ma,” chimed in Charley, “I like to hear 
him tell stories about buying and driving steers.” 

“You can see from what that boy says, Ed, the 
bent of his mind,” said Susan. 

“ Never mind the steers,” said Mr. Quinby ; “ let 
us go on with the party. Who else? ” 

“Put down Ben and Mag,” said Susan. Benjamin 
Garrett and Margaret, his wife, were raised in the 
neighborhood, and had been very intimate with the 
Phelps family. 

“Yes,” said Ed, “we must see Ben; but few of 
the boys at school could whiten his back in the 
snow. Is Mag as sedate and slow of speech as 
ever ? ” 

“ About the same, except when a scolding fit is on,” 
said Susan. 

“What has become of Sim and Kit?” inquired 
Mr. Phelps. 

“ O yes ! ” said Susan ; “ we must have them, and 
they must bring their children. They have a son 
and daughter nearly equal to mine.” 

Miss Mary Carson, a lady of forty, yet fair and a 
favorite with every body, was added to the list. Mrs. 
Martha Swayze, a widow and a general favorite, was 
also invited. 

“We must not forget Father and Mother Han- 
cock,” said Mr. Quinby. 

“ O no,” said Mr. Phelps ; “ they are life-long 
friends, and I like to hear the old lady talk in her 


12i Sickness as a Peofession. 

old-fasliioned style. They must be crowding hard on 
to eighty by this time.” 

“ That must be about their age, but they are very 
smart and active,” said Mr. Quinby. 

‘‘ He was our class-leader when I left, and, if I am 
not mistaken, he had held that office for many years,” 
said Mr. Phelps. 

“ It will be fifty years next September,” said Mr. 
Quinby, “since he received that appointment from 
Rev. Russel Bigelow, and the church is intending to 
have a great time then in celebrating the event. As 
a class-leader he is as full of fire and as interesting as 
ever. As the patriarch of this community he has 
great influence. lie is often called upon to visit the 
sick and pray with them. If it is convenient to get 
him people arc not particular to send for a preacher.” 

“ And his wife is in every way as good as he is,” 
said Susan ; “ both are favorites with all classes. Old 
as they are there is nothing childish about them.” 

“From what you say, I judge they have not 
changed much in my absence. I shall be glad to see 
them,” said Mr. Phelps. 

Mr. Hancock and wife were set down, and the 
company was complete. Again Mr. Quinby sug- 
gested to Susan the idea of help, but she declined, 
saying: 

“ You will have to get the stuff together any way, 
and we can do the rest.” 

Giving the invitations afforded Charley a fine ride. 


Susan Jubilant at a Party. 125 

Aftei" passing tlie morning hours with Mr. Quinbj, 
Mr. Phelps drove out to an adjoining town and called 
on some old acquaintances. Mrs. Quinby and Helen 
were as busy as beavers all day with the work of 
preparation, and Mr. Quinby was able to be at his 
work most of the time. 

Dinner was to be served at two P. M., and at eleven 
the guests began to arrive. Every body and every 
thing were in readiness to receive them. “ Tim ” 
and “ Jen ” and their ten-year-old miss were the first to 
put in an appearance. Mr. Phelps met them at the 
gate, and after his salutations he shouted back to the 
house, 

“ Sue, didn’t I tell you Tim and Jen would be the 
first to arrive ? ” 

“ And didn’t I know that you would be watching 
for them ? ” 

Susan did not mean to be outdone in any thing 
nor by any body that day, and her greetings were 
most cordial and sincere. In a playful way she in- 
troduced “Tim” to “Ed” as his wife’s friend of other 
days. Tim replied by expressing the hope that be- 
tween “Jen” and “Sue” there would be no quarrel 
over “ Ed,” and suggested to him that he show no 
partiality. 

“ You need not mind,” said Sue, “ I have had his 
company for two days. It is time I took a back seat.” 

“ That is not the way you used to do,” said Jen. 

Eobert Frazer and wife and their two small chil- 


126 Sickness as a Profession. 

dren interrupted these pleasantries by driving up to 
the gate. 

This was a good day for Charley, as for once he 
had all the horses he wanted to handle. Helen kept 
by her mother, and played the waiting lady to per- 
fection. Before twelve the company was together, 
and such was the racket which broke out in the par- 
lor, among these men and women who had become 
children again, that Mother Hancock, after waiting 
some time to get in a word, said : 

‘‘ What a set you all have got to be ! I’ve known 
you all from babyhood except Ben Johnson, but such 
a noise and confusion as this 1 never heard before.” 

Susan had her dinner in such a state of prepara- 
tion, and Mr. Quinby was so very handy every- 
where, that she was able to spend much time with 
her guests, and no one in the crowd was gayer than 
she. Finally these farmers became conscious that 
their usual dinner hour was past ; all felt a little 
hungry and sobered down. The men took to talking 
about the western country, the price of land, the 
condition of the crops, politics, and the churches, till 
the welcome bell rang for dinner. These country 
people brought to the table the most vigorous health, 
but as their eyes caught sight of a smoking turkey 
at each end, and a roast pig in the center, and other 
things in proportion, they saw that the challenge of 
their appetites was accepted, and that in the conflict 
before them they would be vanquished. Mr. Quinby 


Susan Jubilant at a Party. 127 

felt a little proud of the achievement of his wife and 
daughter, and Mr. Phelps found a way of letting it 
be known that they had declined receiving any assist- 
ance. After the blessing invoked by Father Hancock, 
Mr. Quiiiby with a keen carving knife attacked the 
pig, Mr. Johnson one of the turkeys, and Mr. Phelps 
tlie other. The ladies could not withhold in low 
tones their praises of the dinner, for really it was 
one of the best ever served in that community. 
Susan sat opposite her husband, and performed well 
her part in doing the honors of the table. 

Finally the battle of knives and forks on the one 
side and pig and turkey on the other began to slacken, 
the play of tongues to increase, and the guests gave 
up the contest, with enough left in possession of 
the table for another engagement, though somewhat 
demoralized. The company felt tliat it would be 
wise to stir about a little. Mr. Frazer and Mr. Gar- 
rett, with Mother Hancock and other ladies, visited 
the garden. For home amusement Mr. Quinby had 
prepared a swing, and for the first time Mrs. Quinby 
consented to take a seat in it, and she was given a 
good airing by the strong arms of Tim and Father 
Hancock. 

But farm chores required that these visitors re- 
turn to their homes at an early hour, and soon all 
were gone. On returning to the house Susan was not 
a little surprised to find the table cleared, the dishes 
washed, and the victuals all carefully put away 


128 


Sickness as a Profession. 


under the direction of Helen. This was her work, 
assisted by Mrs. Swayze and Miss Carson. 

A large part of the evening was spent by Mr. 
Phelps and the Quinby family in the discussion of 
the project of a home in the far west. The children, 
and especially Charley, took a lively interest in this 
affair. As the case grew serious the feelings of Mrs. 
Quinby became much aroused, and her home never 
appeared so pleasant to her. She suggested projects 
which she was sure would result in the payment of 
the debt. Mr. Phelps had had experience in a coun- 
try that was very new and he was not eager to repeat 
it, as the education of liis children had become the 
prime object of his life. As this discussion grew a 
little thin, as a diversion Susan took her seat at the 
piano, and the day was closed with music, song, and 
prayer by Mr. Phelps. 


Susan Herself Once More. 


129 


CHAPTER XL 

SUSAN HERSELF ONCE MORE. 

“ But such a sacred and homefelt delight, 

Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 

I never felt before.” — M ilton. 

The day we have described in the preceding chap- 
ter Mr. Quinby.set down as one of the most profitable 
and enjoyable of his life. lie saw in it the triumph 
of a policy which for more than two years had taxed 
to the utmost his firmness and his faith. Again and 
again had he been tempted to believe that the doctor 
had mistaken his wife’s condition, and that he was 
really acting the part of a hard-hearted man. In his 
own sympathetic nature an incessant war had been 
kept up, often subjecting his policy to the severest 
test. He would have been happier liad he known 
that Susan was truly sick, and as such could have 
treated her as tlie object of constant care. He re- 
fused to believe that she had ever played the hypo- 
crite, and held that by some means her mind had 
gotten into a bad way, and that its condition she mis- 
took for sickness of the body. Now, on the arrival 
of Mr. Phelps, in the discussion of the western proj- 
ect, and in the party given at his house, he experienced 

the culmination of the success which for some time 
9 


130 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

lie had seen was coining. He felt that Susan was 
herself again. Her mind was on society, the church, 
her children, and she was ambitious to see her beau- 
tiful home cleared of debt. Doctors, medicines, and 
diseases passed out of mind and out of conversation. 
The season was good, crops were in fine condition, 
and the markets would enable him to extinguish the 
debt on his home. Still his first care was for his 
wife. Tlie good footing obtained must be held at any 
cost. The danger of reaction must be averted, and 
whatever plan he might adopt, or strategy use, she 
must know nothing of it or the desired effects would 
not be realized. 

Mr. Phelps would leave in the morning. Living 
near the station on the railway six miles from Auburn 
lived a friend he desired to see, and after talking the 
matter over at the breakfast table, Mrs. Quinby said, 

‘‘See here, James, we ought to visit that family 
too. Let us all go, spend the day, and have a good 
time.” 

“ Susan, you have forgotten that I must be at 
Swantown at ten, to meet Perkins on important busi- 
ness ; but you can take Ed to the station with Dan 
and the buggy, and spend the day at Congdens’.” 

“Yes,” said Charley, “and we can ride to school, 
and you can stop and get us as you come back.” 

“That’s the right way to do,” chimed in Helen. 
“ Charley is always quick to see where he will be 
helped.” 


Susan Herself Once More. 


131 


“But, James, what about your dinner?” inquired 
Susan. 

“ I’ll manage that ; there is enough cooked to last 
a week.” 

“Well, Jim,” said Mr. Phelps, “as you are tied up 
for to-day you mean to turn tlie rest of us loose 
together.” 

“ It is the best I can do to-day, Ed, and certainly 
you can have a pleasant ride and a pleasant time.” 

“ But,” said Susan, “ I w^ould not submit to it if 
you were not under promise to be at Swantown.” 

“ Kor I, either,” responded James. 

“ Well,” said Susan, “it seems that the day’s work 
has arranged itself, and let us be about it.” 

After prayers Mr. Quinby and Mr. Phelps saun- 
tered out to the barn, oiled the axles of the buggy, 
harnessed the horse, and enjoyed a pleasant time by 
themselves. 

By half past eight Mr. Quinby bade Mr. Phelps 
good-bye as he saw him start away with his family, 
and soon he found himself alone where all was hilarity 
the day before. Stillness reigned every-where. His 
great Newfoundland dog, Kover, kept close by his 
side and often looked anxiously up into his face as if 
inquiring what these things meant ; where his mistress 
and the children had gone with this stranger, and 
when they would return. The dog was not un- 
happy, as there was no sorrow depicted in the face of 
his master, but he wanted to know what was going 


132 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

on. So importunate were these inquiries that Mr. 
Quinby sat down, caressed him, and told him plainly 
that Helen and Charley had gone to school as usual, 
and that Susan had gone on a visit, and that all would 
be back at night. He told him further that he might 
go with him to Swantown, which for the moment 
pleased him ' much, but as Mr. Quinby started to 
leave home the dog went to the front porch and 
threw himself down, as if to say, “It won’t do to 
leave this house alone.” 

Left to himself, Mr. Quinby had nothing to do but 
think, and his mind ran through a train of thoughts 
of the most hopeful cliaracter. “ To-day’s excur- 
sion,” he said, “ will afford such a gentle letting down 
of the excitements of the party that there will be 
no reaction. Now, what of the future? If the 
present will only continue, I can ask no more. There 
is yet left enough of life to prevent a failure if we 
can only make the most of it.” Thus he pondered 
during his lonely trip to Swantown and back. He 
reached this conclusion : that the work of planning 
was over, and that as every thing seemed to be right 
he would take it for granted that the right would 
continue, and act accordingly. He resolved to make 
a slight addition to his library, and spend a part of 
each evening in family reading. 

When Susan and the children returned about five 
o’clock Mr. Quinby was in the field hard at work, 
but Rover was at the house, and he gave them as 


Susan Herself Once More. 133 

rougli and liearty a greeting as tliej ever received. 
He barked and whined, and caressed them, and did 
every thing but talk, as expressions of his gladness to 
see them, showing that his anxieties of the morning 
had not been forgotten, but had haunted him all the 
day. 

On his return from the field Mr. Quinby found 
the table set for tea, and his wdfe in the garden gath- 
ering seeds. Helen had assumed command of the 
kitchen, and she sent her father to the garden to call 
her mother, as supper was about ready. Being busy 
with lier work, Susan did not see him till she heard 
his voice: 

“Well, Susan, have you had a pleasant day?” 

“Very pleasant, only I had to take the scolding it 
was thought you deserved for not being there. How 
have you got along? ” 

“Very well, but it was dull business eating dinner 
alone after such a time as we had yesterday ; but that 
is the way of the world — it rushes from one extreme 
to another.” 

“ I got you off at the Congdens’ only by promising 
that we would soon make them a visit, and they will 
look for us sometime next week.” 

“All right ; give me a day’s notice, and I will be 
ready at any time.” 

“ What is the matter with Rover ? I never knew 
him to behave as he did when we came back — he 
acted as if he wanted to eat us up.” 


134 : 


Sickness as a Pkofession. 


“ He was terribly distressed after you left, this 
morning; I think he was afraid that Phelps would 
carry you off.” 

“ You weren’t, I hope ? ” 

“ O no ; I was as serene as a kitten.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the ap- 
pearance of Helen, who was a little impatient that 
her parents delayed the supper. 

Supper over, the chores done, and all the incidents 
of the day duly related, Mr. Quinby brought forth 
the story of Adam Bede and requested Helen to read 
a chapter. This was nicely done, and her apt render- 
ing of the broad Yorkshire dialect was complimented 
by the father. Charley tried his hand at the next 
chapter, but with less success. Two chapters more 
were read by the father and mother; and as the 
evenings were short the family reluctantly closed the 
book and retired to bed, all feeling that the house 
Tvas again full of sunshine. 

Susan seems to be fully herself once more. In a 
girlish way she admits Helen and Charles to compan- 
ionship with herself, and finds pleasure in their 
amusements. Charles is never happier than when he 
can persuade his mother to take a seat in his swing. 
With the children she romps about the fields pick- 
ing berries, or goes with them to the river on 
fishing excursions. But often when the children 
were at school she would spend some time, in pleas- 
ant weather, with her husband in the field. As he 


Susan Herself Once More. 135 

held the plow she delighted to carry the lines and 
watch the handsome furrows as they gracefully 
turned over into their places. Susan was still young, 
and nearly as fresh-looking as when she was mar- 
ried. It seemed to Mr. Quinby as if his wife had 
lived two lives, and as if she had been set back 
from the second into the first. Four years of sun- 
shine had been followed by eight of clouds and 
shadows, and now all is sunshine again. He was 
astonished to see how completely Susan could be her- 
self again. Her voice, her playful ways, the songs 
she sang, and all she did, reminded him of the first 
years of his married life. Again she is intrusted 
with a class in the Sunday-school, and becomes active 
in all church work. A most extensive neighborhood 
acquaintance was formed, and social life was kept up 
at flood-tide. The Quinby family was regarded as the 
• most ambitious and stirring in all that community. 
The past, as an unpleasant dream, was fast fading out 
of memory, and was seldom referred to by any body. 

But a great calamity is at hand : a son born on 
Sunday dies the following Saturday — to Susan a 
crushing blow. 

She had fancied, as Helen and Charles would 
after a few years be likely to leave home to care for 
themselves, that this child would remain as her com- 
fort and support. Its death produced a stunning 
shock, and the father was equally inconsolable. For 
the first time in his life he quailed in the presence of 


136 Sickness as a Profession. 

calamity. Ilis distracting sorrow touched the lieart 
of Susan, and she feared it miglit leave him a wreck. 
This had a tine effect upon Susan, and she rallied 
sooner than she otherwise would have done. Helen 
was away at school, and often in after years she was 
heard to say that she never knew the depth and bit- 
terness of sorrow till she came home to attend the 
funeral of that child. Finally, the idea that God 
willed it settled all questions with Mr. Quinby, and 
resolutely he faced the world again. Helen returned 
to her studies, and Mrs. Quinby cared for her house- 
hold affairs. 

Helen had become a cultured, blooming young 
lady, given especially to music and general reading. 
She held high rank in her studies at Lima, and was 
a favorite with all who knew her. She had her fa- 
ther’s cast of mind, but physically she was shorter and 
more slightly built than her mother, having in this 
respect reverted back to her English grandfather. 
Charles was a second and “ improved ” edition of his 
father. His tall, symmetrical form, compactly built, 
and large head of curly black hair often elicited the 
remark, “A splendid young man.” His ambition for 
an education was fully gratified in the district school, 
for when on the farm, caring for the crops and hand- 
ling stock, he felt that he had found his appropriate 
sphere in life. 

The mother admired her daughter — was proud of 
her — but the son was still her favorite. She appre- 


Susan Herself Once More. 137 

dated the honorable place her Imsband held in the 
church and in the community, and was ambitious 
to be regarded as the worthy wife of such a man. 
She gave attention to reading, engaged in the public 
enterprises of the neighborhood, and used her fine 
social qualities to strengthen herself in the new life 
upon which she had entered. 

While sorrows move at a slow pace and linger long, 
years of prosperity and happiness rush swiftly by and 
soon are gone. Helen has returned home, bringing 
with her the highest honors Lima could give, but, to 
the delight of her brother, she is as girlish as ever. 
He is rich in expedients to get her out on the farm 
as much as possible. One was a mischievous request 
that when driving the oxen she might teach him to 
speak grammatically to them. 

Only on two occasions had a physician visited the 
family, and then Dr. Simpson was employed. At 
first Susan received him coolly, but the past gradually 
faded away, and cordial relations grew up between 
the two families. The domestic disturbance, which 
lasted through two years, in appearance was utterly 
forgotten. What Mrs. Quin by ’s thoughts were in 
regard to it no one could do more than conjecture, as 
she never referred to it. She probably cherished the 
idea that her health had radically changed for the 
better, without clearly perceiving tliat at root the im- 
provement was due to a change in the current of 
her thoughts. She was not aware that she continu- 


138 Sickness as a Profession. 

ally felt, whether present or absent, the presence and 
the power of the strong, imperial will of her hnsband. 
She had learned that he was patient and painstaking 
in reaching conclusions, but that when his mind was 
made up nothing could change his course. He was 
to her like Gibraltar’s rocks, against which she could 
lean, but which it was useless to assail. In him she 
found a strength which did not inhere in herself. 
As the immovable he was an inspiration to her to 
act. He was on the one hand the impossible, and on 
the other the inevitable. Hedged in against the 
wrong, she was stimulated to do the right. As the 
incarnation of strengtli and tenderness, she felt that 
the one could not fail nor the other be changed. 
All these elements of character played so naturally 
and easily that they seemed to be essential parts of 
the man. 

During these pleasant years suitors came and 
sought the hand of Helen, and one, Henry Drayton, 
presented such elements of character that her highest 
reason approved, while her heart yielded to him the 
obedience of love. The courtship and marriage of 
their daughter added another year to the thought, 
the emplo^nnent, and interest of the Quin by family. 
The mother’s thoughts were kept away from herself 
while thinking of this marriage and of all its possi- 
bilities. The bride would at once leave her father’s 
house, and but seldom return. The bridegroom was 
a man of ability, well educated, of respectable parent- 


Susan Heeself Once Moee. 139 

age, and of the legal profession. The parties first 
met while both were from home at school, and from 
their first acquaintance had been all the world to 
each other. After the wedding and the parties had 
gone there was a vacancy in the Quinby cottage, but 
no reaction in the mind of Mrs. Quinby. 


uo 


Sickness as a Pkofession. 


CHAPTEK XIL 

SUSAN A WIDOW. 

“ Death loves a shining mark, 

A signal blow.” — Y oung. 

When a vessel, in a starless night, is out on the 
deep with winds blowing a gale and seas high, though 
it may lose its masts, or suffer wreck, it is certain that 
its voyage is not done ; but if gliding slowly and 
smoothly along, in quiet waters, it may possibly be 
entering a sheltered harbor, its toils and perils over. 

Peace and prosperity reign in the Quinby house- 
hold, and a year’s experience has confirmed the con- 
viction that Helen’s marriage is fortunate. Charles 
has ripened into a noble manhood, and, as a model 
farmer and business man, has relieved his father of 
much labor and responsibility. Scarcely a day passes, 
when the weather is favorable, that Mr. and Mrs. 
Quinby do not enjoy a ride somewhere. The words 
sickness or aches or pains have scarcely been spoken 
for years in the family. Mr. Quinby often — too 
often — asked himself the question, “ Has not life’s 
battle been fought, and may we not now enjoy the 
victory?” He did not see that in this disposition 
“coming events” were casting “their shadows be- 
fore.” • 


Susan a Widow. 


141 


He gave Susan great credit for the quiet exercise 
of a steady will-power as the cause, in part, of the 
change in her condition. II is reason and logic per- 
suaded him that he was a happy man ; that in his sit- 
uation nothing was wanting for his comfort ; and yet 
he was conscious of the emptiness of life and of the 
world. He could even with satisfaction go back and 
think of the days when heavy burdens pressed upon 
his shoulders, and the issue of life’s struggle was 
doubtful. Did carrying these cares so long make them 
a part of his being? Without them did he feel 
stripped and forsaken ? He was proud of his boy, 
fully trusted him, and yet he secretly felt that he was 
a little forward in assuming responsibilities. One 
day he bought a horse, tlie next sold him, realiz- 
ing a profit of twenty-five dollars ; yet the father was 
not entirely pleased with the transaction, as he was 
not consulted. The fact is, it was Mr. Quinby’s 
nature to lead, to command, and he felt that his 
scepter was passing into the hands of another. But 
in the cool exercise of that will-power he understood 
so well he said to himself : “ This is right ; it is 
necessary to the unfolding of the character of my 
son, and I should be thankful that he gives such 
promise of success.” 

Coming in one evening as the family were about 
retiring, Charles in a very quiet way said, 

‘‘ Father, I have sold six of our best steers to Ben 
Frazer, and have promised to deliver them at his 


142 Sickness as a Feofession. 

stock-farm to-morrow. Can you drive them over and 
get the money ? ” 

“ What does he pay for them ? ” 

“ They average forty-one dollars each.” 

‘‘Well, that is two dollars a head more than I of- 
fered them to Jake Simmons for three days ago. 
Hadn’t you better go along ? ” 

“ I would, but I have promised to meet Hed Wil- 
son at Auburn at nine, and I can’t tell when Fll get 
through with him.” 

“ All right ; I think I can handle them.” 

The next morning the clouds hung heav}^ and dark 
in the north-west, threatening a cold rain. 

“ I knew,” said Susan, “ we would have rain after 
these heavy frosts.” Once she would have added, 
“ for my ankles so prophesied.” 

When about half way to Frazer’s stock-farm Mr. 
Quin by, with six three-year-old steers, encountered 
some boys with a couple of dogs, which so frightened 
the animals as to make him an hour’s hard running 
before order was restored. The rain then began to 
fall, and when he reached home after delivering the 
cattle he was thoroughly drenched, and had been in 
that condition two and a half hours. When struck 
by the storm he was wet with sweat, which aggra- 
vated the evils of his condition. A change of cloth- 
ing, hot drinks, and a hot fire failed to restore his 
body to its normal condition. Finally, as the chill 
left him it was followed by a terrible fever, and he 


Susan a Widow. 


143 


spent a sleepless night. Dr. Simpson was sent for, 
and at a glance he saw that a doubtful case was in 
hand. He stayed by his patient day and night, and 
Susan was every-where, doing everj^ thing which love 
could suggest. On the fourth day Helen and her 
husband arrived, and on the sixth, with his reason as 
clear as ever, he called his family around his bed, 
gave them such counsel as he judged best, received 
from his minister, with them, the sacrament, and 
passed away. 

After the funeral, and before Helen was to leave 
for her own home, a will was brought forward by 
Justice Hanson, and it was found that all the prop- 
erty, real and personal, belonged to the mother, for 
her to use as she saw proper, and if any remained 
at her death it was to be divided equally between 
the children or their heirs. After much earnest 
consultation Mr. Drayton suggested that Charley 
remain on the farm, carry on its business as usual, 
support the family, pay all debts and taxes without 
selling real estate, and have as his own what was 
left. 

“ This,” said Charles, “ will not be right ; it will 
give me the use of the farm for supporting mother, 
ind at the same time she will be caring for me. 
There are no debts to be paid, nor is there a good 
opening for the use of money now, and we can draw 
out of the bank one thousand dollars for Helen, as it 
is deposited in my name ; then there will be left five 


Sickness as a Profession. 

luiiidred for me to use. Wlien we get ahead again 
we will let her have another sum, more or less.” 

“ Charley,” said Mr. Drayton, “five hundred will 
be all Helen can use, and you had better keep the 
thousand for yourself.” 

“ I think not, for I shall be constantly increasing 
my share, and I don’t care to feel that I am in 
debt.” 

As these were all matters of importance, Mr. 
Drayton suggested that as he had important business 
on hand he would immediately return home, and 
Helen might come in a week or so, as she thought 
proper. 

At this suggestion business matters were dropped, 
and conversation drifted back over the past. Tliecliil- 
dren urged their mother to take her bed and rest, 
even if she could not sleep. The truth then flashed 
through the mind of Helen that her presence for 
some days might be of value to her mother as a help 
against a reaction and relapse. At the time of her 
marriage, before she left home, her father had given 
her a full account of her mother’s disposition and of 
the terrible experience he had endured with her for 
many years. This was done to put the daughter on 
her guard against the approach of any tendency of 
the kind. He referred particularly to the resolute 
course he was compelled to take in effecting a turn 
in tlie tide of her life. Helen then saw that for 
many years her father had been her mother’s con- 


Susan a Widow. 


145 


stant support, and that now slie would need all the 
help that could be rendered her. 

The mother said to Helen repeatedly, ‘‘Any thing 
you see about the house that was your father’s, that 
you want, you can have, for more than our share will 
be left us.” His jDOcket Bible and Adain Bede were 
all she carried away. 

Mother and children took their daily walks over the 
premises, and seemed to think the thoughts the de- 
parted one had experienced during nearly the quarter 
of a century he had been lord of the premises. They 
saw that their pleasant and comfortable home was 
the result of much hard labor and of the most un- 
wearied patience, and they resolved to rear in the 
cemetery a monument to his meinoiy suited to his 
simple tastes and great moral worth. 

During Helen’s stay the mother and daughter 
were much together, either riding out or engaged 
in domestic affairs. Business matters were adjusted 
according to tlie original suggestion of Charles, 
with the full approval of Mi*s. Quinby. As he 
gave Helen his check for one thousand dollars he 
said: “As Mr. Drayton does not need this money, 
invest it in your own name — ^you may need it some 
day.” 

Two days before she left for lier home Helen said 
to her mother : 

“Charley and I are going down into the east 

woods. I want to see that old play-ground once 
10 


14:6 Sickness as a Peofession. 

more, and we may not be back before noon; would 
you like to go with us ? ” 

“I think not; I will stay and have dinner ready 
when you get back.” 

The east line of the Quinby farm touched upon 

the River, and running parallel to this line was 

a small mill-stream known as “ the big brook.” In 
the early spring suckers in large quantities came out 
of this river and ran up this stream to deposit their 
eggs. While but a boy, at night, in the light of a 
torch made of shag hickory bark, Charles learned 
to catch these fish in large quantities. He thought 
nothing of plunging into the cold spring water and 
wading the stream hours in succession. Many nights 
in a week wmuld he follow this sport, without being 
perceptibly the worse for it during the day. The lo- 
cality thus became to him one of the most delightful 
spots on the face of the earth. The timber was 
heavy, forming a canopy overhead, and wild fiowers 
bloomed every- where from early spring till the heavy 
frosts of autumn came. In those days deer, turkeys, 
squirrels — black, gray, and red — abounded in the 
woods. Birds like fiowers swarmed in the air. The 
thrush — the mocking bird of the north — at the time 
of this visit sat upon the point of the highest limb 
on a dead, dry ash, and from a full throat poured 
forth its volume of song. The leaves had begun to 
fall, and the changing forest presented all the colors 
of the rainbow. The season corresponded exactly 


Susan a Widow. 


147 


with the sad, subdued feelings of tliis sister and 
brother, as they sought to derive from each 
other wisdom and strength for the coming battle of 
life. 

After reaching a shaded glen past which swept 
this brooklet, where as children they had spent happy 
hours under tiie shade of a grand old oak, Helen 
with a sad countenance began a little set discourse, 
in which she gave Charley a minute and full account 
of her mother’s sickness, her mortifying experience 
with the doctors and bread pills, and the steps her 
father took to effect a change. “These are,” she 
said, “ the last words father used in his talk with me, 
and I can never forget them, nor the deep meaning 
his looks put into them: ‘Think but little about 
yourself ; if you have an ache or a pain do for 
it what you can, and then keep it out of your 
thoughts. Mind may be induced to turn in on it- 
self and feed on self till the soul is no better than a 
hollow shell. Think of your business, of your hus- 
band, of your church, of humanity, and thus let the 
mind go out and go far, foraging upon the universe 
of ideas. If self is made the center of the world 
you live in your world will be small indeed ; not 
large enough for a healthy support to the mind. 
This is the dreadful mistake your mother made, 
and it came near destroying both her life and 
mine.’ ” 

“ Helen,” said Charles, “ I remember the times you 


148 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

liave referred to, but till now I have had no idea of 
the cause of the trouble.” 

‘‘ I remember many things that seemed strange, 
but the particulars I never knew till father explained 
them.” 

“ What was the policy he pursued ? ” 

“ That is what, for your benefit, I wanted to speak 
of particularly. He was as firm as a rock in his op- 
position to sham medicines, and then he did all in 
his power to interest mother’s mind in reading, 
seeing company, attending church, and riding about 
the country. You remember the great dinner we 
had some years ago, when Mr. Phelps and others 
were there ? That was but one of many of father’s 
expedients to draw mother’s mind away from her- 
self and interest her in others and in other things. 
Now, whether you need her counsel or not, I advise 
you to talk over all your affairs with her, and keep 
her interested in whatever is going on in the outside 
world.” 

“ I think it wise,” said Charles, “ for you to put the 
key to so much of our family history into my hands, 
especially as you will not be here to use it. But what 
was father’s object in revealing all these things to 
you, as you w’ere leaving home ? ” 

“ He either thought that I might possibly have 
inherited some such tendency from mother or that 
in the future I might have to care for her, and that in 
either case the knowledge would be of value to me.” 


■ Susan a Widow. 


140 


“Well, our father was a man of great thought- 
fulness; hence he was far-seeing and of sound judg- 
ment.” 

“But, Charley, there is another matter I want to 
speak to you about, as I am going away. You are 
now twenty- one years of age, and before long you 
will think of marrying, and I am a little anxious in 
regard to that matter.” 

“ Yes, Helen, and I presume you will be very 
glad to know that Ida Maxwell is the girl of my 
choice.” 

“ Ida ! Why, she must be about seventeen now. 
She was one of my pupils when I taught school in 
Vienna. I have often met her since then. She is a 
sensible, noble, Christian girl ; ,you could not have 
pleased me better.” 

“In a long talk I had with father in regard to 
her, about two niontlis ago, he talked very much as 
you do.” 

“What says mother?” 

“ I have said nothing to her on the subject ; mat- 
ters are too immature.” 

“ How soon do you expect to celebrate your nup- 
tials ? ” 

“ I can’t say. Ida is yet in school, and that may 
not take place in less than two years.” 

“Very well, let that matter drop; we will not 
anticipate the future too much, as the present de- 
mands our best endeavors. I am very happily situ- 


150 Sickness as a Profession. 

ated, and my greatest concern, now that father, as 
an inspiration and a support to mother, is gone, 
is lest she relapse into her old wretched way of 
living. I am trying to look into every possible as- 
pect of things, that we may guard against such a 
calamity. I know if she were living with me and 
should indulge in any sham sickness Mr. Drayton 
would detect it and refuse to tolerate it in the house, 
and I know that your spirited Ida would do no better. 
Let us keep each other exactly informed in regard to 
every thing, do our duty, trust in God, and hope for 
the best.” 

“ This conversation has cleared up some obscurities, 
but it has given to the future a coloring I had not 
anticipated.” 

“Yes, and that your footing might be the more 
secure, before leaving, Mr. Drayton, who looks at all 
business matters through the eyes of the law, sug- 
gested that you had better enter a written agreement 
with mother — just as you would do if you were 
strangers.” 

“ Such are my intentions, and T shall have our bar- 
gain run for twenty years, or during the life of both ; 
should mother marry during that time the property 
could not then be taken out of our hands. I will talk 
with mother, and we will agree upon memoranda for 
you to take to Drayton for examination before it is 
executed.” 

“ Yery well; I see you understand your business. 


Susan a Widow. 


151 


I shall leave, you know, day after to-morrow, and we 
must till then spend as much time as possible with 
mother. I think she is bearing up bravely, and if 
you make her feel her full share of responsibility we 
may anticipate a successful future.” 


152 


Sickness as a Profession. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

SUSAN VISITED BY THE LAZARS. 

“ When sorrows come, they come not single spies, 

But in battalions.” — S hakespeare. 

For about eight months after Helen’s departure 
the Quinbj cottage was a home of quietness, peace, 
and prosperity. Charley’s young friends often vis- 
ited him in the evening, the pastor of the family 
occasionally had called, and Susan’s lady friends did 
not forget her ; and as a result her cup of bereave- 
ment had been as far as possible divested of its bit- 
terness. 

One fine morning in the month of May, as Susan 
responded to the door-bell, she met there Mrs. Han- 
nah Hagar and Mrs. Aseneth Woodbridge. 

“ Good-morning to you, ladies, walk in ; please be 
seated in the parlor. Are you and your families 
well?” 

“I am not at all well,” responded Mrs. Hagar, 
putting on a look of languishing sorrow. 

“I,” said Mrs. Woodbridge, “have been most 
miserable for now going on two weeks.” 

“I had not heard of your illness, ladies,” said Mrs. 
Quinby, “and supposed you were in usual health.” 


Susan Visited by the Lazaks. 153 

“O we keep up,” said Mrs. Woodbridge, “as good 
an appearance as we can, but, reallj, I have not seen 
a well day for live years.” 

“ And truly,” said Mrs. Hagar, “ I am so miserable 
most of the time I don’t know^diat to do. I have 
had, off and on, all the doctors in town, and taken 
much patent medicine, but nothing seems to do me 
any good. There is not a moment in the day I don’t 
have to watch my pains. I have the neuralgia, a 
touch and often a twinge of the rheumatism. I am 
dyspeptic, and the doctors all say that my liver is dor- 
mant* If I were not obliged to keep up and about 
I should be under the doctor’s care and on the bed 
all the time.” 

“My trouble,” said Mrs. Woodbridge, “is mostly 
in my back and shoulders and hips, and then I have 
the prostrations, and all sorts of weaknesses. I do 
not expect ever to see a well day again, and I am 
looking for the hay fever as soon as the dog-days 
arrive.” 

“We thought,” said Mrs. Hagar, “ that you would 
be very lonely and wretched, and that as the bad 
weather has for a long time kept us in we must 
improve this pleasant morning to come over and see 
you.” 

“Charles,” said Mrs. Quinby, “is out about his 
business most of the time, and since Helen left for 
Bristol the house does seem desolate and empty 
enough ; but it was what I expected, and consequently 


154 Sickness as a Profession. 

I was partially prepared for it. My cliildren have 
been a great support to me at this trying time.” 

Said Mrs. Woodbridge : I suppose you can’t help 
feeling bad, for every body thought your husband 
was the best man in the community ; still, no one 
can feel your loss so much as yourself.” 

Said Mrs. Hagar; “I have been thinking of you 
a great deal since the day your husband was buried, 
and I have often wondered how you could stand it to 
lose so good a man.” 

“ What we must we all endure,” said Mrs. Quinby. 

“You may have thought it strange that I have 
called here so very seldom in years past, but I have 
really waited for calls, and then Mr. Quinby once 
made a remark which seemed to mean that you did 
not like too much company.” 

“ I was not aware of that, and cannot explain it,” 
said Mrs. Quinby. 

“ I am sorry to see you look so bad, but am glad 
you are no worse,” said Mrs. Woodbridge, “and hope 
you will keep up as well as you can.” 

“We have three more calls to make, and trust you 
will excuse us now,” said Mrs. Hagar. So they left 
the house. 

Left alone, Mrs. Quinby had much to think of. 
Although the nonsense and twaddle to which she had 
listened was addressed to the weak side of her nature, 
yet it was so empty that it was really nauseating and 
disgusting. How little the inexperienced know of 


Susan Visited by the Lazars. 155 

the sorrows of a bereaved heart! How often is it 
that officious kindness is the severest persecution ! 
These women knew as much and no more of the 
sacredness of Mrs. Quinby's sorrows than swine know 
of the tenderness of the vines and flowers over which 
they trample. Could Mr. Quinby have witnessed the 
professional display they made of their miserahles he 
must have realized a sense of disgust, if not of wrath, 
even in heaven. 

During all the day which followed the morning 
call of these women Mrs. Quinby found that her feel- 
ings were very much disturbed. The gabble about 
aches and sores sounded strangely in contrast witli 
the cheery notes of health and joy she had been famil- 
iar with for some years. “ Well,” she said to herself, 
no one could be sick long at a time where James 
was ; he was always so vigorous himself. He thought 
there was not much in a great deal of current sick- 
ness except what is contained in that kind of talk, 
and for such nonsense he had no patience. Yes, and 
I remember it was his opinion that thinking and talk- 
ing about aches had a tendency to produce and in- 
crease them. I see that it is as he said, for I have not 
felt well since those ladies left, and I hope if they 
ever call again they will bring a different atmosphere 
with them and talk about something else besides tlieir 
miseries. But I must reflect on other things, and get 
my mind out of this sort of tliinking of nothing but 
wretchedness. They made me feel as if I were in a 


156 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

lazar-house, and I can’t get over it. They seem ever 
to carry with them the idea of their miseries and un- 
consciously diffuse it abroad wherever they go. I 
wish they hadn’t come here, for I have felt badly 
ever since.” 

At this point Charley broke in upon these reveries 
of his mother by handing to her a letter. On break- 
ing the seal she said, “It is from Mr. and Mrs. 
Phelps ; sit down, Charles, and read it.” The letter 
read as follows ; 

“ Dear Mrs. Quinby : We have delayed writing to 
you for some time, as we knew that such was the 
profound sorrow of your heart that we could say 
nothing to make it less. In your condition there is 
but One who can fully sympathize with you, and you 
are not a stranger to his gracious help. We have no 
doubt that the world seems dark, empty, and cheer- 
less, and it is useless for you to make it seem other- 
wise at present. You must be heroic and patient, 
drink your cup, and endure for a while. Crushed 
nature will rally again. You may now realize that 
you have two noble children — children of whom any 
mother might be proud — and that they will ever be 
sources of good cheer. You may be tempted to 
think that your work is done, and that you have 
nothing to think of now but the past, and to sorrow 
for your loss. To do so will be a great mistake, for 
the future may be rich in blessings even for you. 


Susan Visited by the Lazaks. 157 

Wliat you owe to the past is a sacred recollection, 
and you can give to it nothing more ; but with the 
divine blessing the future has a multitude of good 
things yet to be realized. Cherish a lively sense of 
the hopefulness, the firmness, and resolution your 
husband carried with him all through his life. Had 
it been possible his will-power would have kept back 
death, and he would still have been alive. May his 
mantle fall upon you and your children ! Please 
write us, and we hope to learn that you are well and 
leaning upon the strong One for lielp. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Phelps.’’ 

“ That is a sensible letter, Charles, and it contrasts 
strangely with the talk I listened to this morning.” 

“ Yes, mother, that letter has the true ring in it ; 
but whom have you seen this morning ? ” 

“Mrs. Woodbridge and Mrs. Hagar called, about 
ten o’clock, and such masses of misery as they made 
themselves out to be I hope not to see again very 
soon ; they could talk -of nothing else.” 

“Well, read again the Phelps letter, ponder well 
what it says, and it may serve as an antidote for the 
dose of nonsense they gave you.” 

Soon after dinner Charles came in and said : 

“ Mother, I am going down to Swantown to trans- 
act a little business with the blacksmith and look at 
some steers ; shall not be absent more than two hours ; 
would you like the ride ? ” 


158 


Sickness as a Pkofession. 


“ Perhaps I would better go ; but I feel so op- 
pressed that I don’t care much for any thing.” 

“ You will not need to fix up any, as you will not 
be likely to get out of the buggy. I shall be ready 
in four minutes.” 

Charley saw that the visit of the misemhles had 
produced its effect, for his mother was constantly 
thinking of them, and he was anxious to get her 
mind upon something else. After his talk with 
Helen she had become his greatest care. He knew 
himself to be her favorite, and that if he failed to 
tide her over her tendency to despondency and think- 
ing of self no one else could do it. 

As they started for Swan town, Charley, in his 
brusque manner, remarked : 

“ Mother, I think it fortunate that you can count 
among your friends the Phelps family ; they are so 
sensible, and their words so inspiring. Since I was a 
boy I have had a desire to see the great West ; and if the 
fall is open and I can get my work done in time, how 
would you like to go with me as far as Wisconsin? 
And you could make Mrs. Phelps a good visit, while 
Mr. Phelps and I went further on — perhaps spend 
some little time in hunting and fishing. I could ar- 
range so as to be absent three weeks.” 

‘‘ And you pay all such needless expenses ? ” 

“ Certainly, mother ; who else should pay them ? ” 

I had never thought of such a thing, and it looks 
like a great undertaking.” 


Susan Yisited by the Lazars. 159 

Not impracticable, if you determine to do it.” 

“ Charley, you are very kind, and I’ll think about 
it. I was wondering why it was that those women 
while at our house could talk of nothing but their 
diseases and miseries.” 

“Well, they are used to it. They feed on these 
things as buzzards do on carrion. Siicli things con- 
stitute the staple talk of their class, and they have not 
sense enough to see the disgust they excite in all who 
are compelled to hear them. I hope you did not 
promise to return their call, nor invite them to see 
you again.” 

“ They made me feel so queerly I really don’t 
know what I said to them. I felt afraid that I might 
become as miserable as they professed to be — they 
put such a strange meaning into the word miserable, 
and every change in their looks gave a new emphasis 
to the word.” 

“ Well, let out of sight be out of mind. They are 
gone, and if you do not return their call you will 
not be likely to see them again very soon. I would 
never again think of a word they said.” 

“ You wouldn't if you could help it, nor would I.” 

Having reached Swantown, Charley handed the 
lines to his mother, and passed into the blacksmith’s 
shop. 

Mrs. Swinton, from the opposite side of the street, 
seeing Mrs. Quinby, came out and greeted her as a 
sister in the Church in a hearty manner. She said : 


IGO Sickness as a Profession. 

‘‘ I am glad to see you riding out and looking so 
well. Will you not alight and come in ? ” 

“ I can hardly do that, as Charley said his business 
would detain him here but a few moments. Are you 
well these days ? ” 

“ O yes, as well as usual ! and that, you know, is 
saying a good deal. My husband says I don’t keep 
still long enough for sickness to get hold of me. 
When will you look for Helen out to see you ? I 
did want to see her so much before she went back.” 

“ She said she would not be back again, unless 
something happens to bring her home, till she came 
up with the birds in the spring.” 

“ Dear girl, what a comfort she would be to you if 
living near by ! ” 

“ I realize that more and more every day. Charley 
is in the house but little during the day, except at his 
meals, and often I feel very lonely.” 

“ Well, you must leave the young man occasionally 
to take care of himself and get out among your neigh- 
bors all you can. I am to have a very select party of 
our church folks next week. The day is not set, as 
the elder has not returned, and I want you to be 
present. The company will be such as 1 am sure 
will please you.” 

‘‘Ho doubt about the company, but there is doubt 
about my ambition to get ready to come. Charley 
said I need not fix up any, or I should not have been 
here to-day.” 


Susan YisrrED by the Lazars. 161 

‘‘ I know you are sad, but it is better not to neglect 
tlie good that is yet left in the world for you. I 
shall send you word as soon as I know the day of the 
party, and you must not disappoint me.” 

Charley heard the closing words of this sentence as 
he sprang into the buggy to drive away. He in- 
quired : 

“ What is the enterprise Mrs. Swinton is setting 
on foot ? ” 

“ Nothing but a little party of church people. I 
presume Brother Barton is at the bottom of it, and 
wants something done.” 

‘‘ Of course, mother, you will be there ; we must 
do what we can to keep father’s place in the church 
good.” 

“ I can’t say, Charley, what I shall do. It seems 
to me I can never again take much interest in these 
matters.” 

“ Mother, there is nothing strange in that ; your 
feelings are too deeply absorbed in the things of the 
past, but present experience will not last forever. 
Both reason and religion tell us to care well for the 
present and the future.” 

“ I see, Charles, you are just like your father.” 

“ I wish, mother, I could be half as good a man 
as he was.” 

It is clear that this young man was engaged in a 
difficult task. He was laboring to support a charac- 
ter which demanded something more than argument. 

11 


162 Sickness as a Profession. 

Mrs. Quinby both loved and feared her husband. 
She no more thouglit of changing his purposes than 
of drawing a planet out of its course, and, as a conse- 
quence, he was to her a source of peculiar strength. 
She regarded him as a model, a standard, and an in- 
spiration. In given cases she thought of what he 
would think, and his conscience was often to her a 
guide. Any interest left in his hands she regarded as 
safe. For some years she had manifested a strength 
of character which was not wholly her own, and she 
was scarcely conscious of the influence which came 
to her from without. Her son, though a man of 
marked ability, could not be a substitute for the hus- 
band. It is not likely that Mr. Quinby himself knew 
to what extent he had for years served as the strong, 
rugged oak to a tender vine. Charles constantly 
watched his mother, strengthened every weak place, 
and yet he saw that she was constantly sinking to her 
former level. 

The night following this ride to Swantown, when 
Charley came in to supper he found the table empty 
and his mother lying on the couch. She said, 

“ Charley, I have felt so miserable since we re- 
turned that I have done nothing about supper ; you 
wdll have to help yourself. I am sure you can make 
a cup of tea, and perhaps after a little I shall feel 
better.” 

“ Mother, if you are sick I will immediately go after 
the doctor.” 


Susan Yisited by the Lazars. 163 

O no, I am not sick ! There was not a doctor in 
the house for years till your father was taken ill, and 
I don’t want to see Dr. Simpson nor any other doctor 
again.” 

“Then what can ail you, mother? Let us do 
something ourselves. How do you feel ? ” 

“I just feel tired, and as if I didn’t want to stir; 
perhaps if you make a cup of tea and I take a sip I 
will feel better.” 

“ Mother, I know nothing about that business. 
When Helen was doing the work she would not 
allow me to be about, and I know I shall spoil every 
thing I touch. If you will come and tell me how to 
work I will do the best I can.” 

“ Well, make a fire in the kitchen stove.” 

Between them a supper was prepared. Mrs. Quin- 
by ate as freely as usual, and washed the dishes. 

After reading the county newspaper a while Charley 
laid it down, and in the blandest manner said : 

“ The best way for you to break me into the cook- 
ing and dish- washing business is to start for Wiscon- 
sin, and I will follow as soon as the crops are harvested. 
Without change of cars you can go within a half mile 
of Mr. Phelps’s door, and you would be on the road 
only thirty hours.” 

“ Why, Charles ! What do you think I am made of, 
that I would dare undertake such a journey alone ?” 

“ Mother, you would take a sleeper and have as 
good a night’s rest there as if you were at home. I 


164 Sickness as a PkoJ'ession. 

am sure that such a change would do you good. In 
getting ready would you need any help ? Y on should 
start as soon as next Wednesday. You would leave 
here at 12 M., and at 6 P.M. the next day the hack 
would set you down at Mr. Phelps’s door. In the 
meantime I would notify them that you were 
coming.” 

“ That is the way you rush things, Charley — 
exactly like your father.” 


Susan among the BiiEAKEKS. 


165 


CHAPTER XIY. 

SUSAN AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

“ Away, now, let me hasten in my song. 

For we have many a mountain path to tread 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 

By truth and sadness, not by fiction, led.” 

Mbs. Quinby did not visit Wisconsin, nor till after 
the snows came did Charles complete his harvests. In 
the meantime Helen visited her mother, and for one 
month, when not waiting upon her, she was in earnest 
and sad consultation with her brother. Mrs. Qiiinby 
rapidly lapsed into her old way of neither thinking 
nor caring for any body or for any thing but herself. 
She would seldom sit down to a table and eat with 
other people, but she must have something prepared 
especially for herself, and often insisted that it be 
brought to her room. She enjoyed any thing which 
distinguished her from the common herd of mankind. 
She owed the world nothing, and felt that no one 
could do or suffer too much for her. Her husband 
and all her old friends seemed to have passed out of 
her mind, and she cared for nothing beyond her own 
wants. She took no further interest in the church or 
church work ; the outside world became a blank, and 
it was impossible to interest her in any conversation 


166 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

which had not self as its principal element. Every 
incident of her past life seems to have experienced a 
resurrection, and whatever had been unpleasant seems 
to have been magnified and made the staple of all her 
thoughts and conversation. There could be men- 
tioned no phase of human life, especially of the sor- 
rowful kind, that she could not enlarge upon and 
illustrate by the transcendent depths of what she 
had felt and suffered. Her mind was once more 
completely thrown back upon itself and feeding upon 
its own vitals. The profound regard and deep sym- 
pathy which Helen and Charles had for each other 
seemed to be an annoyance to her. She wanted all 
herself from both, and was jealous of them. If nei- 
ther the one nor the other was in sight she feared they 
might be enjoying each other’s society. Her idea 
was that, as her children, they should care for nothing 
but to minister to her wants. In giving them such 
an abundance of opportunities she was conferring 
favors upon them for which they should be thankful. 

It is seldom that the influence of one mind over 
another is more clearly seen than in the collapse Mrs. 
Quinby suffered in about one year after her husband's 
death. The son and the daughter did all in their power 
to bear her up, but in spite of their plans and efforts, 
their presence and encouraging words, down she 
went, till she enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that 
she was the object of the thoughts, tlie care, and the 
solicitude of her children and of all her friends. 


Susan among the Breakers. 167 

At last the battle-ground became the employment 
of a physician. The children were ready to call Dr. 
Simpson any moment, but the mother refused to see 
him. During her husband’s sickness she had greeted 
him with lady-like cordiality, and it appeared that the 
past unpleasantness was forgotten ; but no, it was all 
there, and Dr. Simpson could be family physician no 
more. As it was about time for Helen to return 
home she consented to call in Dr. Janies Jennings, of 
Pikeville, who was treating John Corson, a consump- 
tive neighbor. He examined her case, thought she 
needed treatment, and felt sure that in a short time 
he could give her system quite a different tone. 

Mrs. Quinby was delighted with this doctor. “ How 
kind and how sympathetic ! ” she ejaculated to herself. 
The medicine she needed he had not with him, but 
promised to call the next day and leave it, and he was 
true to his word. 

It was agreed between Helen and Charles that help 
should be procured, and it was thought that a child- 
less widow by the name of Hannah Wilder, of Swan- 
town, would be a suitable person. She consented to 
come into the family at the rate of two dollars per 
week during the winter, and if she remained during 
the spring and summer her wages were to be raised 
to three dollars. 

With a hired girl in the house and a doctor engaged, 
gleams of sunshine seemed to enter the mind of Mrs. 
Quinby, and she did not mind the absence of Helen. 


168 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

For a few days she manifested a cheerfulness which 
made the impression upon the hopeful mind of Mrs. 
Wilder that her new home would be pleasant and her 
task not difficult. Charley resolved to surrender his 
mother into her hands as fully as possible, and put 
the business of the farm in a better condition. He 
was up early in the morning, and but little was seen 
of him during the day except when at his meals. 
Giving his mother a cordial greeting whenever she 
was present, he plunged into an explanation of his 
plans and work, giving her no opportunity to describe 
her miseries. She thought he was very worldly, and 
that his society was of but little value to her. 

As he was washing his hands one evening Mrs. 
Wilder came to him and said : 

“Your mother has decided that she would rather 
sleep in the chamber, and by her order I have pre- 
pared the front room for her. She has spent much 
of the day there, and seems to be well pleased.” 

Charley paused a moment, as if solving the possi- 
bilities of this new arrangement, then washed and 
wiped his hands in silence, as if he had said to him- 
self, “We shall see what we shall see.” 

His mother was now fully settled again in her pro- 
fession. She was an invalid, did no work, required 
weekly visits from her doctor, and her sole employ- 
ment was talking and taking medicine. Mrs. Wilder 
was a healthy, strong, and patient woman ; and being 
much prone to look on the comical side of life her 


Susan among the Breakers. 169 

labor was not greater than she had anticipated, and 
she was quite as much inclined to laugh at the eccen- 
tricities of Mrs. Quinby as to become angry or dis- 
gusted at some things required at her hands. 

About ten days after Mrs. Quinby took to the 
chamber she did not appear one morning at the break- 
fast table, and on visiting her room Charles learned 
that she felt unusually unwell, and probably would not 
be down to dinner. A little after nine of the clock 
the bell was rung, and Mrs. Wilder with the broom 
signaled him to come to the house. He found tliat 
his mother had sent for him to help Mrs. Wilder 
bring her down-stairs and put her in her sick-chair at 
the table. Charley had ever been to his mother a 
kind and sympathetic boy, but now his patience was 
tried beyond endurance. For once in response to his 
mother’s voice his eyes were furious, but he said not 
a word. His business being urgent, he took her in 
his arms, disdaining help, carried her into the dining- 
room, put her down in the chair, and left the house. 
As he passed through the door his mother, in a plaint- 
ive tone, said : 

“ I hope, my son, you are not impatient with your 
poor mother ; you will not have her with you very 
long, and you should do for her and enjoy her society 
all you can while she stays with you. Poor boy ! he 
will understand his mother’s worth after she is gone 
better than he does now.” 

Mrs. Wilder noticed the abrupt and indignant 


170 Sickness as a Piiofession. 

manner of Charles, but the comical appearance Mrs. 
Quin by made, as a great, helpless baby in his arms, 
excited her merriment to the last degree. She slipped 
into the pantry, and shut the door. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Quin by had occasion to go 
to her room in the chamber three times for medicines, 
and these feats were performed without any trouble. 

As bed-time came on Charles tried to persuade his 
mother to occupy her sleeping-room below, and have 
no occasion to go into the chamber for any thing ; 
but his facts and arguments made no impression upon 
her mind. She quietly said : 

“ It is pleasant sometimes to look out of the front 
windows, and see people go by.” 

Charley reminded her that she could see the street 
quite as well from her room below, but she was angi’y, 
and regarded his appeals as persecutions. Finally, 
Mrs. Wilder said : 

“It will make no difference, Charles, as your 
mother is well enough to help herself ; for she has 
been up and down stairs a number of times this after- 
noon.” 

“ How do you know any thing about that ? ” said 
Mrs. Quinby angrily. “I think hired girls should 
mind their own business, and keep their tongues 
still.” 

That there might be no controversy, and as it was 
about eleven o’clock, Charles picked up his mother, 
and carried her to her chamber, and in silence re- 


Susan among the Beeakees. 171 

paired to his own bed. His mother liad never seen 
liim when he was really so angry. The next morn- 
ing she said to him : 

“ After all that a mother has done for a son, it is 
discouraging and painful to have him get out of pa- 
tience as you did last night.” 

Charles made no reply, but he had entered upon 
a task which lasted more than a year ; yes, for more 
than a year Charles Quinby carried his mother to and 
from her chamber, and as often as three times a week 
he left his work in the field, sometime in the fore- 
noon, for that purpose. Out of pity for him Mrs. 
Wilder remained in the house much longer than she 
otherwise would have done. During the' day she 
was required to draw her from one room to another 
in her heavy arrn-chair, and these exercises were to 
Mrs. Quinby moments of supreme bliss. It was 
then she reached the height of her profession. Many 
incidents of her experience the jolly Mrs. Wilder 
would relate with much gusto. The following may 
be taken as specimens : 

“ I had once drawn her through the dining-room 
into the kitchen, but in the rear the doors were all 
open leading into the parlor, and, by looking through 
these doors, one could see out into the street. The 
doctor had failed her one day, and as she saw some 
one drive rapidly by she thought it might be 
him, and you ought to have seen her spring to her 
feet, while I was pulling on the chair, and rush 


172 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

tliroiigh those rooms, and open the front door, to 
see who that man was. Another day she looked very 
faint-like, and could scarcely speak above a whisper. 
It seemed she couldn’t open her mouth or move her 
tongue. Her words were nothing but little nubbins 
of words formed while her lips were closed. I said 
something that provoked her a little, and on the in- 
stant her voice rang out as loud and clear and musi- 
cal as any body’s. 

“One afternoon I left her on the bed, feeling 
very prostrate, and went into the garden for lettuce ; 
and, happening to look toward the house, I saw her in 
the pantry, througli the window, standing in a chair, 
looking for something on the top shelf. 

“ I often used to hnd things in the wash I knew 
would not liave been there if she had not dug them 
out of old trunks and boxes which were in tlie 
chamber over tlie kitchen. I washed an old woolen 
vest for Charley which he said he had not seen for 
five years.” 

The neighbors appreciated Charley Quinby’s con- 
dition, and for a time they tried, in various ways, 
to bring a little sunlight into his home, but finally 
they all gave it up as a hopeless task. As of old, 
she complained of soreness of tongue, but unfor- 
tunately the irritation led it to increased activity. 
Taking no interest in any thing but herself, her 
conversation was thus limited, and it became an 
intolerable bore. Apparently, as of old, she had a 


SttsAj^ amoKg the Bee AKERS. 173 

way of setting her month in motion about lier aches, 
pains, dizziness, prostrations, nervousness, etc., and 
going off, leaving it; and then her endless repeti- 
tions had to be endured. No one could suggest a 
subject and pursue it with sufficient vigor to lift her 
out and keep her out of it more than two minutes at 
a time. Self was every-where and in every thing as 
her department of the world. 

Charley’s experience and correspondence with Hel- 
en convinced him that he had in hand the exact job 
his father so resolutely faced nine years before, 
and he resolved that in treating it he would begin 
with the doctor, as his father had done. Taking into 
his buggy a sensible friend, he drove to Parkville to 
settle his doctor’s bill. Finding Dr. Jennings in his 
office, he said : 

“ Doctor, I have come to talk with you a little about 
mother. She has been under your treatment one 
year, and I would like to know what change for the 
better you can discover?” 

“ I think your mother is slowly improving, but she 
was badly run down, and time will be required to 
bring her up.” 

“ But I think I ought to know what her particular 
difficulties are, and what you are doing for them. At 
home we might do something for her in your absence.” 

“ Physicians are not in the habit of giving away 
their profession, but pursuing it themselves, and pa- 
tients fare the best who trust their physicians.” 


174 Sickness as a Profession. 

\ 

“ Bat you can tell me what you hope your medi- 
cines will accomplish.” 

“Sir, we administer our medicines without saying 
much about them.” 

“ I did not ask what medicine you are giving ; I 
think I know that ; but what do you expect to accom- 
plish by them ? ” 

“ I have anticipated nothing more than the slow 
and general recovery of your mother’s health.” 

“ Well, sir, for the past four months I have ex- 
amined almost daily the medicine you have given 
mother ; it has been all the time the same thing, and 
nothing but bread pills and colored water, and I dare 
you to deny it. You are discharged, sir ; let me have 
your bill.” 

“I am not treating you, Mr. Quinby, but your 
mother, and I shall be ready to settle with her at any 
time.” 

“ This, sir, is my business, as writings will show ; 
and now, in the presence of this gentleman, James 
Parker, I discharge you, and demand your bill.” 

“Wery well; it makes no difference with me who 
pays the bill.” 

The bill was already made out ; it stood : “One 
hundred visits and medicine ; $250.” 

“Write your receipt in full,” demanded Charles; 
and as he paid the money, and took the receipt, he 
forbade him ever coming to his house again, 

Charley had noticed that the minister, Dr. C. P. 


Susan among the Breakeks. 175 

Little, had not called for a long time, and the day be- 
fore this visit was made to the doctor he spoke to 
him about it, and fully laid before him his troubles ; 
and he was the first and only person except Helen to 
whom he had mentioned them. 

“Well, Charley,” said he, “if I visit her I shall 
have to be honest, and tell her exactly what I think 
of her case.” 

It so happened that tliis visit was made while 
Charles was absent at Parkville. As Dr. Little took 
a seat, Mrs. Quinby said : 

“I had supposed. Brother Little, that ministers 
were careful about visiting the sick of their flock.” 

“ Generally they are ; 1 always am.” 

“ It is now three months since you came to see me.” 

“That is true; and I should not have come now 
had it not been for the respect I have for your son.” 

“ What has he to do with the matter ? Am not I 
the sick one ? ” 

“ I regard your sickness as unnecessary ; so far as 
your body is concerned, it is all a sham and a fraud, 
and I cannot visit you on any such basis ; but if I 
call occasionally you may annoy Charles the less.” 

“ O, how can a minister be so lacking in charity 
and sympathy ! ” 

“ I am not lacking in either charity or sympathy ; 
but my feelings go out for your noble son, who has to 
pay useless doctor bills, whom you have enslaved, and 
whose life is being blighted on your account.” 


176 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

“ O m j ! wliat a minister ! ” 

After sitting a few moments, liis brow clouded 
with indignation, Dr. Little rose to depart. Mrs. 
Quinby interrupted him, saying : 

“ You surely will not leave me this way. Can’t 
you pray for a poor woman suffering as I am ? ” 

“ Xo, madam, I can’t pray for you. I knew your 
case years ago, and I know it now. I should mock 
the Aliniglity and bring condemnation upon my own 
soul if I should offer prayer for you as for a sick 
woman. Your mind, given to an all-absorbing self- 
ishness, has brought you where you are. Like the 
fabled animal, you feed upon your own vitals. Your 
bodily health is as good as it was during the last 
eight years of your husband's life, and I warn you 
that in making yourself a burden and a plague to 
your children, your friends, and the Church you 
commit sins for which you must repent or lose your 
soul. I leave you to God’s mercy. Good-day.” 

On his return from Parkville, about an hour after 
Dr. Little’s visit, Charley found his mother walking 
the floor very much disturbed. Her quick, strong 
step rather surprised him. As he came in he quietly 
said : 

“ Mother, I have been to Parkville and settled your 
doctor’s bill. How much do you suppose it was ? ” 

“ I can’t tell ; perhaps twenty dollars.” 

“ It was two hundred and fifty dollars. T paid it 
and forbade the doctor’s coming here any more.” 


Susan among the Breakers. 17T 

Cliarley was tempted to repeat what was said about 
bread pills, but did not. His mother said : 

‘‘ My son, how do you suppose I can get along 
without a doctor ? ” 

“Just as well without him as with him. He has 
done you no good, and he knows it. I will now tell 
you what I did not intend to. I charged him with 
having given you as medicine nothing but bread pills 
and colored water, and he dare not deny it. My fa- 
ther would not put up with such nonsense, and I 
never will again. Two hundred and fifty dollars for 
nothing, eighty dollars for a hired girl, making three 
hundred and thirty dollars no better than thrown 
away ! And then I have not been able to do more 
than a half year’s work. Where will we be in five 
years ? ” 

Charley, to check his wrath, left the house. This 
indignant outburst of feeling on the part of Charley 
appeared comical to Mrs. Wilder, because, as she 
thought, it was out of place, and should have come 
long before. 

During the rest of that day Mrs. Qninby presented 
not in the least the appearance of an invalid. Three 
times she went up and down the stairs. She occupied 
her easy-chair but a small part of the time. She 
walked the house with a quick, strong step. Mrs. 
Wilder thought her voice indicated healthy lungs. 
If Dr. Little had been the shock of an earthquake, 

Charlev had followed it by an explosion of dynamite. 

12 


178 Sickness as a Profession. 

At any rate, tlie woman was compelled to think of 
something besides herself. Her countenance was 
flushed, and her eyes were full of expression. Hap- 
pening to pass the parlor mirror, she paused, looked 
at herself, and was really surprised to see how well 
she looked. She could think of nothing but the 
iron-heartedness of the preacher and the ingratitude 
of her son ; but it was better for her to indulge in 
these thoughts than to be dreamily pondering on her- 
self, searching for a new pain. 

Knowing exactly what is going on at her mother's 
house, Helen can remain away no longer. The high 
respect Mr. Drayton entertained for Charles opened 
the way for Helen to spend as much time with her 
mother and brother as she judged best. 


A Change in the Air. 


179 


CHAPTER Xy. 

A CHANGE IN THE AIR. 

“ The spleen with sudden vapor clouds the brain, 

And binds the spirits in its heavy chain ; 

Howe’er the cause fantastic may appear 

Th’ effect is real and the pain sincere.” — B lackmore. 

Happiness has fled the Quinbj cottage, and appa- 
rently forever. Mrs. Wilder’s good nature carried 
her through a year and one month, but she could not 
see that it was her duty to remain longer. She w^as 
plodding and jolly, and yet quick to perceive what 
was passing behind the curtain of the human heart. 
It was as clear as noonday to her mind that Mrs. 
Quinby’s life consisted of attempts to draw attention 
to herself by exacting the services of others. During 
her waking hours it w^as her main study to find in 
what ways she could command somebody to do some- 
thing for her. How she could be so indifferent to 
the privations, annoyances, and sufferings of others 
was a marvel and a mystery. The I was every thing, 
the you nothing. 

But she felt that there was a change in the air, and 
she was not mistaken. The discharge of her doctor 
by Charles; his apparent reckless hard-heartedness; 
the visit of her minister and his refusal to pray for 


180 Sickness as a Profession. 

her as for a sick woman ; the anticipated visit and 
bearing of Helen, and the prospective marriage of her 
son to Miss Maxwell, made it necessary for her to 
think of something besides herself. If the new vigor 
she commenced to manifest had been connected with 
sweetness of temper aching hearts would have been 
made glad tliereby. 

Miss Maxwell had completed her studies at the 
boarding-school, returned home, and, according to ex- 
pectation, the day of her marriage to Mr. Quinby was 
not far in the future. The facts in regard to Mrs. 
Quinby were generally known in the community, and 
formed tlie staple of considerable gossip. It was 
generally known, too, that Charles was bound by a 
written contract to remain on the farm for a term of 
3’ears and suppfU’t his mother. He was thus bound 
to the homestead by filial care, by written agreement, 
by inclination, and by interest. But to take a wife 
there was not to be thought of for a moment. Miss 
Maxwell had been raised in circumstances of comfort, 
but not of affluence. She knew what was implied in 
housekeeping, but had never been subjected to 
drudgery. A solitary sister, she had been the pet of 
her three brothers. She had a taste for both music 
and painting ; she was bright, elegant in form, had 
finely molded features, and was the pride of her fa- 
ther’s heart. A little less than of medium height, 
she was round and compact of build, and had never 
been sick. She excelled in dignity of bearing ; was 


A Change in the Air. 


181 


self-poised, easy, and graceful in style. Her mind 
was characterized by quickness of apprehension and 
a fair measure of strength. Symmetry was the chief 
characteristic of her mental, moral, and social devel- 
opment. Charles and Ida had met at a spring on a 
picnic ground when the lady was but sixteen and he 
was nineteen, and after their first interview neither 
had ever been out of the other’s mind long at a time. 
They had seen but little of each other’s company, but 
that made no difference with either. Charles was six 
feet in height, sharp-featured, with hair abundant, 
black, and bushy, broad-shouldered, and finely built. 
In every way he was, in the eyes of Ida, the splendid 
man, and the only one she had ever met. Their attach- 
ment was sudden in its commencement, and at this 
time it had had some years of rational growth. 

After leaving the Quinbys’ Mrs. Wilder made no 
attempt to conceal the peculiarities of her experience 
while there. She always spoke kindly of the family, 
corrected some misapprehensions, but really put in 
circulation many stories which people in a jocose 
manner would repeat. No harm was intended or 
done, but the Maxwells were annoyed, as they could 
see in these things the peculiar situation of their 
prospective son-in-law. 

Charles had visited Ida but once since her return 
from school, and then he left the .impression upon her 
quickly discerning mind that he was carrying a bur- 
den he did not care to speak of even to her. The 


182 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

fact is, he was putting forth a supreme effort to pre- 
pare the way for the celebration of their nuptials, but 
be was so hedged in that he saw no way out of his 
embarrassments except in the complete change of his 
mother’s condition. This led him to consider witli 
great care his father’s treatment of the same case and 
the happy results. Charles possessed resolution, force, 
and firmness, and now he was inspired to action by 
what he regarded as a question of destiny — his mar- 
riage with Ida Maxwell. 

/ After dismissing the doctor Charles waited a month, 
and then invited, as an aid to a supreme effort, his 
sister and her husband to visit the old homestead. On 
her arrival Helen spent a couple of days in putting 
the house in order, Charles and his mother having 
let things get deranged after Mrs. Wilder left. 

Mr. Drayton was a very decisive and rather impet- 
uous man, and after obtaining an insight into the 
condition of things he urged Helen to give back to 
Charles the one thousand dollars she had taken away, 
and left for home in disgust. As there was no busi- 
ness to be cared for, he judged that the children could 
manage the domestic affairs better without him. 

Helen was a little surprised to find her mgther so 
active and strong, but quickly apprehended the cause 
when she learned what her agitation had been as the 
result of the discharge of the doctor and of her pas- 
tor’s visit. She quietly said to Charley : 

“Mother has had something to think of besides 


A Change in the Air. 


183 


herself for a few days, and the more clearly we see 
that this is the key to the situation the better. Shall 
we be able so to manage as to keep this up? ” 

‘‘ But, then, mother is angry with me,’^ said Char- 
ley, “ and with Dr. Little, and with all the world ; and 
it is very unpleasant to have it so.” 

“Yes, and before we go to bed to-night she will 
be angry with me also, for I am here to do thorough 
work. But this we must endure; father endured it, 
and it seems to be the only way out of the trouble. 
These shocks of the mind, fixing it on something be- 
sides herself, leave the body free to act — and it does . 
act, as we now see; and if, when the anger passes 
away, we can still keep the mind employed about 
good and useful things the cure is complete.” 

“I see, Helen. You are the doctor; go ahead.” 

That evening, about eight of the clock, when all 
was quiet and there was no danger of interruption, 
Helen sat down by her mother, who was lying on 
the couch, and taking her hand in her own said : 

“Mother, Charles tells me it is now a month since 
you have been visited by the doctor or taken any 
medicine, and have you not all the time been as well 
as you were the month previous?” 

“ O, it was cruel in Charles to discharge that good 
doctor ; his sympathy ^vas worth so much to me ! I 
felt strengthened after every visit.” 

“ But, mother, you are much stronger than I ex- 
pected to find you. And I would like to know wh:it 


184 Sickness as a Profession. 

you mean by the doctor’s sympathy ; is not mine as 
deep and strong and good as his ? ” 

‘‘ I mean that he understood my case exactly, and 
could enter fully into my feelings. Before I could 
half state my case he always knew all about it ; and 
then he was so kind-hearted and sympathetic.” 

“Yes, mother,” said Charles, who had taken a seat 
near Helen ; “ and that is exactly where I can see 
in him the villainous hypocrite that he is.” 

“ Mother,” said Helen, “ I see the case as Charley 
has described it to me ; and if you were entirely well 
he would talk you sick, if you would listen to him, tliat 
he might have a patient against whom he could run 
up a heavy bill. But is not your appetite as good, 
do you not sleep as well, and are you not as strong 
as you were two months ago ? ” 

“ O, Helen ! have you come up here to torment 
me ? As if I had not endured enough already ! You 
know my trouble is not in those things.” 

“ Well, then, tell us what your trouble is, and 
where it is.” 

“I think you might know by this time without 
asking.” 

“ Mother, I am sure I know your trouble, and I 
pray you take it kindly while I tell you. The day 
before I was married, to put me on my guard, as I 
suppose, father gave me a full account of the long 
sickness you had about nine years ago, when 
Charley and I were children. Some of the things 


A Change in the Air. 


185 


he mentioned I remembered. He saw then, as I 
see now, that your sickness is not of the body, but 
^ it is the want of ambition and resolution of the 
mind in regard to things external to yourself. 
Your mind has fallen back into that former way of 
living on itself and eating out its own vitals. Such 
was father’s judgment, and I can see clearly the 
truthfulness of it. You were in good health for 
years after Dr. Simpson ceased Ijis bread pill prac- 
tice, and it was because father had a way of keeping 
alive your ambition and interesting you in the out- 
side business world. Charley cannot do this; he is 
a son, and not a husband, and you must do it for 
yourself.” 

Mrs. Quin by angrily sprang to her feet, strode four 
times across the room, then lay down again, turned her 
face to the wall, and except for her long breathing 
and sighs was silent. This was no more than Helen 
expected when she alluded to the bread pill practice. 

“ Mother,” said Charles, “ we have much more to 
say to you, and the result is a matter of life or 
death with us. It is our supreme desire to make home 
as pleasant to yon as possible, but what do you 
expect I can do for you if rendered helpless and 
miserable myself ? A better woman than Mrs. Wilder 
to manage the house could not be found in the na- 
tion, and yet your exactions were such as rendered 
it impossible for her to stay. And since she left 
you know what miserable work we have had in 


186 Sickness as a Profession. 

housekeeping. My business has not been half done, 
and the end of the, year will find me for the first 
time in debt. We can’t get along without help, nor 
can we find help that will stay with us. I insist 
that you tell us what can be done. Will you release 
me from my bargain, and allow me to go away to 
care for myself, leaving you every thing?” 

An ejaculation, ‘"O, ungrateful sou, to think of 
such a thing!” came from the back side of the 
couch. 

“ But, mother, think,” said Helen : “ Charles is now 
in his twenty-second year; it is time he began to do 
something for himself. Would you have him spend 
his whole life in this way ? ” 

‘‘I never expected to be such a burden to my 
children as this,” came from the couch, in half-smoth- 
ered tones. 

“ Mother, you should know that the time is near,” 
said Charles, “ when I must fulfill my promise to 
marry Ida Maxwell.” 

“You marry Ida Maxwell!” said Mrs. Quinby, 
with the utmost bitterness and scorn, rising to her 
feet. “You marry anybody! — and especially that 
little thing! She’s good for nothing but to paint 
and play the piano.” Then, turning to Helen, she 
said, “ How long has this miserable courting business 
been going on ? ” 

“ I can’t say. I have suspected it for some years, 
and surely, mother, there’s not a nicer lady in all 


A Change in the Air. 


187 


the country than Ida Maxwell, or one I would rather 
have as a sister. She is sensible, she is cultured ; 
she is a lady ; and I think she will make Charles just 
the wife he needs. To prevent their marriage would 
be a sin, and whoever did it would be responsible for 
the consequences.” 

“ I guess they could exercise a little of that will- 
power you say so much about, and keep their heads 
above water,” said Mrs. Quiiiby sarcastically. 

As Mrs. Quinby was still standing Charles rose to 
his feet, and with a calm firmness, which gave to his 
tall, manly form the aspect of majesty, he said : 

Mother, there is but one of two ways out of this 
trouble. One is for you to release me from mj^ 
contract, and the other is for you to be the woman 
you were the last ten years of father’s life ; and it is 
for you to choose between them.” 

Indeed ! So your serene highness orders. Well, 
it will be a great day when I allow you to break 
your bargain ; and I should think you would be 
ashamed of the thought of abandoning your mother 
for that little midget of an Ida Maxwell— or for any 
body else.” 

“ But, mother,” said Helen, is not Charles some- 
body ? Has he not a life to live ? Is his welfare of 
no account? You regard it as important that he 
should think of you ; now suppose for the moment 
you forget self, and think of him and his interests, 
and for once take the measure of your own respon- 


188 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

sibilities. He has before him a life-time, and to 
blight the life of one so noble and so good would 
be terrible indeed.” 

“ Well,” said the mother sneeringly, ‘‘ let him marry 
and bring his girl here. He would be handy, for he 
would sit and look at her half the time.” 

‘‘ Do you think Charley would marry and bring a 
wife here to lift you and wait upon you as Mrs. 
Wilder did?” 

“ He might do worse than that.” 

“ No,” said Charles, with a calmness that was ter- 
rible, “ not to save your life — nor mine either. My 
wife shall never be a waiter to a spleenisli mother.” 

“Your marrying is all nonsense; and how you 
could think of it, poor in health as I am, is more 
than I can imagine.” 

“Mother, I will be at the expense of bringing here 
five of the most reputable doctors in the country, and 
if, after the most thorough examination, they will 
tell us that you are diseased in body, and tell what 
the disease is, you may select from the number the 
doctor you want, and I will* pay his bills till all 
my earnings and the last dollar of this property is 
expended.” 

“ But Dr. Simpson would have to be at the head 
of the heap, and I would not have him in the 
house.” 

“ Certainly, if we selected the best, he would be of 
the number.” 


A Change in the Air. 


189 


Mrs. Qiiinby made iio reply, and after a few mo- 
ments’ pause she, without saying good night, retired 
to her room and shut the door. 

That was a dismal hour. The clock had struck 
eleven, and a storm of cold wind and rain from 
without was beating upon the window shutters. The 
long, close, and often sharp interview had apparently 
resulted in no good, and yet — there Was a change in 
Mrs. Quin by, and it could not be for the worse. 

Twelve years before this time the father proved 
himself to be wiser than his children. He took time, 
was patient, laid plans, worked indirectly, and in such 
ways that his wife was not aware of his intentions. 
His position as husband gave him great advantages 
the children did not enjoy, for he could bring his 
powerful personality to bear directly upon her. They 
could use facts, logic, the interests of others ; but these 
agencies were lost upon her mind. 

After the mother retired the children sat for a lonij 
time in silence and listened to the beating rain and 
moaning winds. To break the painful spell Charles 
said : 

‘‘ This tempest is delightful compared to the terri- 
ble business we have in hand.” 

“ Yes, and it is inspiring, and I am not in despair. 
Mother has certainly now something she must think 
of besides herself, and if our theory of her trouble be 
correct, that is the first step to her recovery.” 

“ Be that as it may, it has become,” said Charles, 


190 


Sickness as a Peofession. 


“ my duty to see Ida without delay and acquaint her 
fully with the facts in the case.” 

“You would not expect her to come here, under 
the circumstances.” 

“ I would neither ask nor permit it.” 

“ Mr. Drayton has proposed that mother come to our 
house and stay a few months, but I fear that would be 
a mere diversion and not a restoration. I believe she 
can be put on her feet here, in her own house, and 
then she will remain so; and I intend to see it done 
before I return'.” 

“ My first business now refers to Ida, and it is 
clear enough, but beyond that the future is as dark 
as dark can be.” 

“ When will you see her ? ” 

“ I must see her to-morrow, in the presence of her 
parents, and lay before them my situation. The day 
of our marriage is not set, but New Year’s day has 
been mentioned, and if in the meantime there is no 
change in mother, and she will not release me from 
my bargain, I may as well abandon the idea of mar- 
riage altogether. I see no way but that I must sacri- 
fice myself to the spleen of my mother. This, before 
God, may be my duty, but as yet I fail to see it. At 
this conference, Helen, I would like to have you pres- 
ent, for I have not yet recovered from the habit, 
formed years ago, of trusting to your superior judg- 
ment.” 

“I think I had better stay with mother. I feel 


A Change in the Am. 


191 


stirring in me a spirit which is eager to grapple with 
her case once more. The battle is not yet fought 
out, and both of us should not at once quit the field. 
I do not lose faith that what ought to be done can be 
done. For you and Ida to separate and go different 
ways would be the destruction of botli. Your future 
would be the wanderings of two blasted souls seeking 
rest but finding none. You must not harbor such a 
thought. If separation comes it will come soon 
enough. See Ida to-morrow, spend the day at Max- 
wells’, tell her and her parents every thing, and leave 
me with mother.” 


192 


Sickness as a Profession. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

TWO FIELDS FOUGHT IN ONE DAY. 

“ The harder matclied the greater the victory.” — Shakespeare. 

If one is ever tempted to lose faith in God it is 
when the mind is conscious of the purest intentions 
and yet is unable to perceive any course open which 
shall in all particulars seem to be right. This was 
the ground on which Charley stood after his long 
consultation with his mother and sister. In the whole 
compass of his horizon there was but one step which 
he could take, and that apparently could but lead the 
way to ne.w disasters. All he could do was to explain 
to the Maxwell family the circumstances he could not 
control, and resign himself to his fate. Charles was 
not a philosopher, nor had he ever troubled himself 
wdth abstract questions of casuistry of any kind, but 
from the depths of his soul he asked the question : 

‘‘ Why does not the heavenlj^ Father, who hears 
the young ravens when they cr^^, open my way before 
me, and at least show me what is right ? ” 

It then occurred to him that when the present duty 
was performed the next might also become apparent, 
and he felt his burden to be less in weight. 

After an early breakfast prepared by Helen, Charles 


193 


Two Fields Fought in One Day. 

gave the needful attention to his toilet, and started 
for Mansfield, the home of the Maxwells, which he 
reached at ten o’clock. 

Helen was thus left alone to test the virtue of the 
policy she had adopted in regard to her mother. 
Time passed on, the clock struck ten, and nothing 
was heard from her, nor had Helen been to her room. 
She had been careful to keep that fatal bell in her 
own possession. A little before twelve the mother 
appeared, unwashed, hair in foul disorder, face hag- 
gard and wearing an angry expression. She in- 
quired : 

“ Where is Charles ? ” 

‘‘ He has gone to Mansfield to see Miss Maxwell.” 

“ O horror ! I wonder if he could find nothing 
else to do.” 

“ Mother, you should not feel that way. Like 
other young men, Charley intends to marry, and he 
will marry Ida Maxwell. I feel thankful that he has 
made so wise a choice.” 

O dear! I don’t see what I live for.” 

“Mother, life would be worth living if you lived 
to accomplish some object. Life simply as life can 
contain but little good. But let us not talk about 
these things now. As soon as you can care for your 
toilet ; dinner will be ready, and you must be hungry 
by this time.” 

“ When did Charles leave ? ” 

“ About eight o’clock.” 

13 


194 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ Did he have his breakfast ? ” 

“ Certainly ; we breakfasted at seven, at the time I 
rung the bell.” 

“ O dear 1 can’t you prepare me a little warm 
water.” 

“ The tea-kettle, mother, is full of hot water ; use 
all you want.” 

“I would like to know, Helen, what you came 
here for ? ” 

Helen kept flitting about, arranging the table, and 
leaving her mother wholly to herself. When dinner 
was ready she said : 

“ Mother, you look so much better. You sit here 
in your own place and pour the tea.” 

The mother, however, went into an adjoining room 
and dropped down into her old sick arm-chair. She 
said : 

“ Helen, I wish you would prepare a little dinner, 
and season it especially for me, and put it on this 
stand.” 

“Mother, a good dinner is prepared, waiting for 
you on the table, where it should be ; you can come 
here and eat or help yourself as you like.” 

Helen sat down and ate her dinner in silence, and 
the mother softly sighed and groaned in the adjoin- 
ing room. 

Helen was full of her father’s blood. This blood 
was now up, and she was as calm and solid as a rock. 

As she rose from the table and commenced clearing 


Two Fields Fought in One Day. 195 

off the dishes her mother appeared and took a seat at 
the table, and in a subdued tone said : 

“ Helen, will you prepare some fresh toast, fry an- 
other egg, and warm the ham, and I will try to eat a 
little.” 

“ Mother, the dinner was once in good condition, 
and you would have found it so had you sat down 
when you should ; now you can fix what you want to 
your liking.” 

The mother saw that a new order of things had been 
introduced, and she felt that resistance on her part 
was useless. 

Helen stepped iuto the garden, and was absent half 
an hour or so, and when she came in her mother w’as 
draining the teapot, and much of the victuals she had 
left on the table had disappeared. Nothing more was 
said till the dinner work was out of the way, and at 
Helen’s suggestion her mother had changed her dress 
and given additional attention to her toilet. Mrs. 
Quinby then inquired : 

“ What is tlie special object of Charles’s visit to 
Mansfield to-day ? ” 

‘‘ He has seen but little of Miss Ida since her re- 
turn from school, and I understand that it is their 
purpose to be married about New Year’s. That is his 
business.” 

‘‘Married ! That boy must be an idiot to think of 
being married. A man is a fool to marry before he 
is thirty years of age.” 


196 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ Charles is now in his twenty-second year, and that 
is, I think, a good age for a man to marry.” 

“ And marry that little butterfly Maxwell ! What 
will she be good for ? ” 

‘‘ To say that she is his choice, mother, answers all 
questions, for this is wholly his business.” 

“ But where will he put her ? for I will not have 
her here.” 

Mother, reflect that his right to occupy this house 
is as great as his obligation to work the farm and sup- 
port you, and there is nothing in the bond which for- 
bids his marrying and bringing his wife here.” 

“ Well, let him bring a wife here. I will make it 
hot for them both. What would Charles be good 
for with a wife to look after ? She would get all his 
thoughts and attention, and I would be entirely 
neglected ; and that Ida would be of no more ac- 
count about the house tlian a kitten.” 

Mrs. Qiiinby estimated the value of Charles and 
of every other person by the amount of attention 
she was likely to receive from them. 

‘‘Mother,” said Helen, “you should remember 
that Charles is no longer a boy, he is a man — and a 
noble man, too ; and the rights of a man belong to 
him and you will be compelled to recognize them.” 

“ But did not his father put it in his will that he 
should sta}^ on the farm and support me ? ” 

“ Ho, mother. Father did not and could not by will 
bind his son to any body ; and you must settle it in 


Two Fields Fought in One Day. 197 

your mind that there is no earthly power which can 
divert Charles from the course he thinks he ought to 
pursue.” 

“Yes, Helen, I see — a mother has no rights but 
submission.” 

“ Mother, you have the rights you had at the time 
of father’s death. You have the right to go into so- 
ciety, to attend church, to ride out, do your own work 
about the house, and make the world the happier for 
being in it ; and I fear unless you do these things you 
will be utterly abandoned to yourself. Charles will 
not sacrifice his life to what the doctors regard as 
your whims and spleen.” 

Let us leave Helen to wrestle with her mother, and 
step over to Mansfield and see how Charley is spend- 
ing the same hours. Ida met him at the gate with a 
hearty good-morning and the gift of a kiss. Fully 
as he from the depths of his heart reciprocated every 
expression of her affections she saw something inde- 
finable in his manner which smote her like a blow. 
Passing into the parlor, they found seats upon the 
couch. Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell entered the room, ex- 
tended to Charley their hearty greetings, and retired. 
Before Mr. Maxwell could leave the room Charlie 
asked him if he expected to be at home during the 
day, and signified a desire to see him before he re- 
turned home. After some conversation about school 
matters and other things we need not repeat, Charles, 
with embarrassments he could not conceal, said : 


198 Sickness as a Profession. 

Ida, you were not looking for me to day, and I 
have come to see you at this unexpected time because 
I am deeply perplexed and need counsel and help.” 

“ I have noticed for some time past, and again to- 
day, that you were not exactly as you used to be, and 
now I desire to have revealed to me the trouble, 
whatever it may be.” 

“ That is my business here to-day, and you shall 
know it all.” 

“ But why did you ask father if he would be at 
home to-day ? ” 

“ I wish to talk with him about this very matter, 
and, if agreeable to you, please call him and your 
mother in, that they may hear it all.” 

“ First tell me plainly : has any thing transpired 
which has in the least degree affected your personal 
feelings and wishes in regard to me ? ” 

“ Kot in the least ; you were never more beautiful 
in my eyes than now. I never more ardently de- 
sired to call you my wife than now. You were never 
more essential to my happiness than now, and I am 
sure the woman does not live who could be substituted 
for you in my regards.” 

“Yery well; that is enough. I will call in father 
and mother.” 

In a few moments the trio entered the room, and 
Charles with increased embarrassments gave a full 
account of his mother’s depression in former years as 
revealed to Helen by his father, and of his recollec- 


Two Fields Fought in One Day. 199 

tioHS of some of those events. He then described 
her present condition, and the attempt whicli he and 
his sister had made to bear her up and save her from 
a second lapse. He further explained the nature of 
his father’s will, and of the contract into which he 
had entered with his mother, and finally he re- 
ferred to the attempt which he and his sister had 
made the night before to persuade his mother that 
her health was as good as it was at the time of his 
father’s death, and that she would find it so if she 
would get up and use the strength she had. ‘‘ But 
our efforts,” he continued, “ only excited her indig- 
nation and increased her angry sorrows. Thus, you 
see, I am bound to the homestead by contract, by 
filial duty, and by interest, but the thought of taking 
a wife there I cannot endure. As life there would 
be to you, Ida, a domestic hell, if mother will not 
release me from my contract, what can I do ? Here 
is where I call for help.” 

Mrs. Maxwell. Have you suggested your marriage 
to your mother ? 

Charles. I have, and she is violently opposed 
to it. 

Mrs. Maxwell. What does your sister Helen think 
of it? 

Charles. She loves Ida very much, and thinks I 
could not have made a wiser choice ; but she sees the 
force of the difficulties I have presented, takes the 
liveliest interest in all my affairs, and has stayed with 


200 Sickness as a Profession. 

niotlier to-day to test the virtues of the policy father 
adopted twelve years ago. 

Mts, M. What in your judgment is the worst 
feature in the case ? 

Charles. I can see neither end nor modification 
to present difiiculties. If mother would release me 
from my contract I would go away, and 1 could leave 
her to her fate. Helen would take her to Bristol, 
but she will not go. She is afraid of the sternness of 
Drayton. Helen will do any thing in her power to 
help me out of this trouble. 

Mr. M. What is the present exact condition of 
things at home ? 

Charles. I have paid the doctor’s bill, two hun- 
dred and fifty dollars, Mrs. Wilder has left us, mother 
and myself live together, and I do most of the work 
that is done. Helen is now with us on a visit, and 
will remain a couple of weeks or longer. 

Mrs. M. After Helen leaves what will you do ? 

Charles. I suppose we will. drag along as before 
she came, unless there is a change in mother. 

Mr. M. Does not this derangement of affairs 
greatly interfere with your business ? 

Charles. Certainly. I have not done more than 
half a summer’s work. 

Mrs. M. Are you sure, Charles, that your mother 
is not ill in body. 

Charles. I am certain that the origin and cause 
of all mother’s ailments are in her mind. The body 


Two Fields Fought in One Day. 201 

is affected only as mind preys upon it. Could I per- 
suade her to make a journey, to visit and receive 
visits, to take an interest in church and affairs in 
general, she would be well enough. Much has trans- 
pired during the past month to call her mind off 
from herself, and she seems to be ten times as strong 
as she was. Should she be subjected to the necessity 
of making her own living she would have something 
to think of, and quickly get up and go about it. 
During the last ten years of father’s life she was as 
healthy as most women, but it was his mighty per- 
sonality and the policy he pursued that kept her 
a-going. He had not left us six months before she 
felt the loss of his support. I would like to have 
you see Mrs. Wilder and get some of the particulars 
of her experience. Fortunately, she always looked at 
the humorous side of every thing, and would laugh 
where some would cry and others get mad. She 
once came into the wood-house where I was split- 
ting wood, almost exploding with laughter, and in 
explanation of her merriment said : “ I could not 
get my hands instantly out of the dough to answer 
her bell-call, and she rushed through the dining-room 
and opened the door leading to the kitchen, and 
sharply inquired why I did not come to her room. 
So with the dough sticking to my fingers I followed 
her back, and what do you suppose she wanted ? She 
just wanted I should pour some cold coffee into a 
tea-cup, and both were on the stand by her sick-chair 


202 Sickness as a Peofession. 

within her reach. It was all I could do to keep my 
face straight.” 

At this little story the company laughed merrily, 
and the funeral-like spell which had filled the room 
was broken and somewhat dissipated. 

Ida. One who had that disposition could get along 
with any thing. 

Mrs. M. They might for a time, but it seems that 
Mrs. Wilder’s humor at last failed her. 

Mr. M. It is well for us all to look the facts of 
this matter full in the face, but the questions involved 
are not to be settled bj^ argument, but by the actual 
realities of the case. 

Charles. Exactly, and it is the judgment of Helen 
that Ida and her mother had better visit at our liouse 
while she is here. She says Ida owes her a visit, and 
she would better come and stay a few days, and allow 
mother to become personally acquainted with her. 

Mrs. M. A bold step, but I see no better way to 
settle a very important question. 

Mr. M. I think I would like to see Mrs. Wilder. 
Are her statements trustworthy ? 

Charles. Certainly, and especially her presenta- 
tion of the humorous side of things. In some mat- 
ters you would see me making an awkward if not a 
ridiculous appearance. 

Mr. M. Well, Mr. Quinby, the frankness with 
which you have laid this entire business before us has 
been very much to your credit, and this development 


Two Fields Fought in One Day. 203 

of personal worth is more than an offset to many in- 
cidental difficulties. What a man is remains ; circum- 
stances change. 

Mrs. M. It is clear to my mind that your and 
Ida’s relations have undergone no change, and that 
they should not because of the troubles we have been 
discussing. Were you tired of Ida, and putting for- 
ward excuses to obtain a release from your engage- 
ment, you would not have needed our counsel ; but 
the evidence we have of fidelity in the midst of the 
greatest perplexities, I want to assure you, has bound 
us all the more firmly to you. 

At last Mrs. Maxwell and Ida yielded to the per- 
sistent demand of Charles, and promised to visit at 
his mother’s two days hence ; and bidding them good- 
bye, with a somewhat cheerful heart, he returned 
home. 


204 : 


Sickness as a Peofession. 


CHAPTER XYIL 

MRS. QUINBY EMERGINa FROM HER TROUBLES. 

“ Strange how much darkness melts before a ray — 

How deep a gloom one beam of hope enlightens.” — Dawes. 

The next morning, for the first time during Helen’s 
visit, Mrs. Quinby and her children breakfasted to- 
gether. As they moved back from the table Helen 
put the Bible into the hands of Charles and said : 

“ The old homestead should be, as far as possible, as 
father left it, and never more than now did we need 
the guidance of a divine hand.” 

After worship, while yet the spell of an earnest 
prayer was upon each one, Helen said to her mother : 

“ Charley tells me that you and I are to have com- 
pany to-morrow, and if ypu will do up the dishes I 
will put the house in order, and set the cooking in 
motion.” 

With perfect docility Mrs. Quinby acquiesced in 
this arrangement, and, marvelous to tell, she asked 
no questions, and for two hours silence reigned, only 
as the parties moved about their work. Charley was 
conveniently near, ready to assist whenever his serv- 
ices were required. Mother and daughter were too 
busy about their work to engage in conversation till 


Mrs. Quinby Emerging from her Troubles. 205 

late in the afternoon. What manner of spirit in the 
meantime Mrs. Quinbj was of became apparent when 
she asked the following question : 

“ Helen, would it be too great a condescension for 
you to inform me who the visitors are you are ex- 
pecting to see to-morrow ? ” 

“ Mother, it will be no condescension at all ; this is 
your house, and I desire nothing so much as to see 
you the active commanding mistress of it, and none 
so much as your children would be delighted to do 
you reverence. Our visitors are to be Mrs. Maxwell 
and her daughter Ida. When I taught school in 
Vienna the Maxwells were my best friends and Ida 
was my brightest pupil, and now if you will take the 
lead in preparing for them I will do any part of the 
■work you may desire.” 

“ How long have you known of this visit ? ” 

“ Only since Charles returned from Mansfield last 
night. He informed them that I was here, and they 
desired to visit us before I returned to Bristol.” 

“ Well, the Maxwells are nothing very great any 
way, and not very elaborate preparations are neces- 
sary. I would not expect to see any thing better than 
pork and beans on their table.” 

Helen was delighted with her mother’s moderation, 
and hoped for still better things. She resolved first 
of all to put her in the lead as fast and as far as pos- 
sible. Her first hit was successful. She said : 

‘‘Please lay out the work for both Charles and 


206 Sickness as a Profession. 

myself. Shall he kill two chickens for dinner, or will 
one be enough ? ” 

“ Why not take one of the early turkeys ? I heard 
him say they are large and fat.” 

u Yery well — you speak to him about it; I am go- 
ing into the garden to look after the vegetables.” 

A little later, as Charley was passing through the 
yard, his mother called to him and gave direction in 
regard to the turkey. The interest thus manifested 
surprised as well as delighted him. 

As the sun went down that night every thing 
within and without the Quinby cottage was quiet, 
peaceful, and happy. The preparations for the mor- 
row’s visit were satisfactory to all. Helen took occa- 
sion to interest her mother in her home life and her 
husband’s business in Bristol. “Every night,” she 
said, “ he brings in his books and instructs me in the 
business of the day. He thinks I should know ex- 
actly how our finances stand.” She gave an account 
of her church life, her work in the Sunday-school, 
among the sick and poor, her relation to her pastor 
and her most valued acquaintances. 

“ I would like to know when you have time to 
think of yourself ? ” inquired the mother. 

“ I think but little about self, as father taught me, 
and I am all the better for it. He said, ‘ Think of 
your Maker, of your husband, of your work, of your 
church, and let mind feed on the universe, and not 
on self.’ ” 


Mks. Quinby Emerging from her Troubles. 207 

“Yes, you have repeated his creed exactly, and 
surely he was a wise man.” 

Helen felt that she had fought, conquered, and 
established a peace. That evening the cover was re- 
moved from the piano, and the mother for the first 
time in two years joined with her children in singing 
the evening hymn. Apparently she felt the presence 
of the inevitable, and made no resistance. When she 
met in Helen her husband’s will-power she recog- 
nized it at once, and she found it easy to yield where 
she had so often yielded before. 

The next day, about eleven of the clock, Helen and 
Charles met Mrs. Maxwell and Ida at the gate, and 
while Helen escorted the ladies into the house 
Charles led the horse to the stable. Mrs. Quinby, on 
her own motion and without assistance, had put her 
toilet in a truly tasty condition, and gave the ladies a 
cordial reception. Helen classed herself as a familiar 
visitor, and left her mother to do alone all the honors 
of the house. When preparations for dinner were 
made she waited for orders, or asked instruction in 
regard to all she did. It was apparent that her 
mother was pleased to be on her feet again, and to be 
recognized as the queen of her household. Especially 
wlien Helen was busy Miss Ida paid assiduous atten- 
tion to Mrs. Quinby. A woman’s arts she knew in- 
tuitively. 

Small talk was mixed in sparingly with the prac- 
tical affairs of life, of education, of church, of society, 


208 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

and Mrs. Quinby was not a little surprised that one 
so young and just from the boarding-school should 
possess so wide a range of solid information. , Charley 
kept away from the house most of the time, that the 
elements within might have the freer play atid the 
parties have the better opportunity to become ac- 
quainted with each other. He felt that if the visit of 
these ladies called still further the attention of his 
mother off from herself, and interested her in them 
and in other things, the greatest good would be the 
result. 

Mrs. Qiiinby had yielded to the conviction that 
Ida was to be her daughter-in-law, and that fact she 
could not keep out of her mind, and so pleasing was 
the girl in her manners that the thought no longer 
distressed her. When animated Ida’s vivacity gave 
to her features an expression which surpassed the 
charms of mere beauty. Flashing out of the girlish- 
ness of her youth wei-e thoughts and purposes which 
belong to maturer years. 

In the course of the afternoon the name of Mrs. 
Jennie Johnson was mentioned, and Mrs. Quinby 
observed that she had not met her for a long time. 
Mrs. Maxwell saw her frequently, and spoke of her 
as being as gay as ever. 

“ It is not easy,” said Mrs. Quinby, “ to find better 
company.” 

“I should like to visit her myself,” said Helen. 
^‘Let us get up a little party and go there the first of 


Mrs. Quinby Emerging from her Troubles. 209 

next week ; there will be time to send her word, and 
I shall not leave till Saturday.” 

“ I should like much to go,” said Mrs. Maxwell, 
and, after a few moments’ pause, Helen, feeling that 
her mother was in the mood to commit herself, 
said : 

“ What do you say, mother? We can’t go without 
you.” 

“ Certainly 1 would like to visit Mrs. Johnson ; and 
I presume Charles could take us there, if he could 
not spend the day. You would better write her, or get 
word to her in some way that we are coming. She 
likes to be ready for company, for then she can spend 
all her time with visitors, and there is no end to her 
wit, and sense, and nonsense. One such in a crowd 
is all there is need of.” 

In a quiet way Helen managed to keep Charles in- 
formed of the cheery spirit which prevailed among 
the ladies in the house, and his occasional appearance 
among them did much to keep the tide moving. The 
projected visit to Johnson’s he regarded as a lucky 
hit, and he said to Helen : 

You have got into father’s track, and the good 
start you have made must be prosecuted to the ut- 
most. Let us keep our wits at work, and see what 
else can be invented. Sunday we must get motlier 
at church, if possible ; and I think we can do it, for 
it is quarterly meeting time, and Dr. Shaw, the elder, 

was her pastor years ago.” 

14 


210 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ A good suggestion,” said Helen ; “and if she 
manifests any reluctance we must make lier feel that 
our going depends upon her. She must not be left 
here to brood over the past ; a half day would bring 
her down again.” 

“ I am,” said Charles, “ more hopeful than that. 
Mother’s mind is too deeply stirred, and she has too 
much to think of, to subside so quickly into indiifer- 
ence ; but let us do what we can to keep it in vigorous 
action.” 

So pleasantly had the visiting proceeded that the 
da.y had well worn away before any one was aware of 
it. Mrs. Quinby, assisted by Helen and Charles, pre- 
sided at the table, and the dinner was simply superb. 
With the representations of Charles in regard to his 
mother vividly in mind, Mrs. Maxwell and Ida were 
as much surprised as delighted to witness the happy 
condition of affairs. 

The fact is, during the day of Charles’s absence at 
Mansfield Helen took occasion to make her mother 
feel that the inevitable was upon her, and that there 
was no escape. With the action of mind came also 
strength of body. When she saw that she was al- 
lowed to go without her breakfast and even a warm 
dinner, she felt the presence of a force that it was 
useless to resist. It was a happy stroke of policy on 
the part of Helen to put her mother in the lead, and 
act only under her direction. She liked to be con- 
spicuous, to be noticed. It was with her a passion 


Mrs. Quinby Emerging from her Troubles. 211 

which not even her husband fully understood. In 
fact, a large part of the comfort she derived from 
being sick arose from the fact that she was the ob- 
ject of much care and attention. As a sort of an 
unction she took to her soul the thought that doctors 
came to see her^ that money was paid out for Ker^ and 
that she was thus getting the good of her share of it. 
Others lifted her and waited upon her^ and in these 
facts she saw proof that she was of the greatest conse- 
quence. This passion was now flattered and gratifled, 
but in another direction. She was the fully recognized 
mistress of the house, and its first honors belonged 
to her. She was consulted, she gave orders and was 
obeyed. Experience and youth alike delighted to 
please and enjoy her favor. There was no satisfac- 
tion in acting the invalid if that profession brought 
neglect and a cold dinner, and if being about and en- 
gaged in affairs was to be reverenced as a queen the 
motives for doing so were very great. Helen by 
chance, or by a kind of inspiration, had sounded the 
depths of her mother’s nature, and was playing upon 
it as the true key-note of her life. The father had 
while living exacted from his children the profound- 
est regard for their mother, and they still sacredly 
cherished these feelings. A new light had dawned 
upon the minds of these dutiful children, and they 
determined to understand it fully and make the most 
of it. 

As the hour of four came on Mrs. Maxwell left 


212 


Sickness as a Profession. 


alone for her home, Miss Ida having been persuaded 
by Helen to remain two days longer. In domestic 
matters Helen still kept in the background, doing 
simply as requested by her mother. While the 
mother prepared a light tea Helen and Ida were in 
the dairy yard with Charles, teasing him about one 
thing and another. After tea they did the dishes, 
while Charles and his mother, gathering seeds in the 
garden, had a pleasant chat by themselves. 

“ Haven’t we had, mother, rather a pleasant 
visit? ” 

“ Why, yes ; why shouldn’t we have had ?” 

“It seemed to me that you were much taken up 
with Miss Maxwell.” 

“ O, I presume you noticed whatever she said or 
did, and thought all very nice.” 

“ But, mother, what do you think of her ? ” 

“ O, she’s nice enough in her way and of her kind, 
but what would she be good for on a farm ? ” 

“ Mother, when I buy a horse or a cow or a pig I 
ask what will the animal be good for on the farm, 
but in selecting a wife such a question is not asked — 
the wife is for myself, not the farm. Is this woman 
so completely the woman for me that all •others are 
of no consequence, is the question.” 

“Well, you are yet in the world of romance, and 
you will have to take time and grow out of it'; and 
yet one would expect that a man of your good judg- 
ment would have gotten out of it before now.” 


Mrs. Quinby Emerging from her Troubles. 213 

But isn’t she bright ? Hasn’t she good solid 
sense, and are not her ways ladj-like and pleasing ? ” 

“ Certainly, and I have no doubt that in your eyes 
she has every perfection.” 

“ But, mother, why don’t you tell me soberly ex- 
actly what you think of Miss Maxwell ? ” 

“ Why, Charles, a girl should not marry till she is 
twenty-four, for if she does her young ladyhood is all 
thrown away. At twenty* four she becomes sensible, 
and knows what she wants. Miss Ida ought to be in 
school at least two years longer.” 

“ The education of girls should not be measured by 
the length of time spent in school, but by their capa- 
city to learn and the diligence with which they use it 
while there. Ida was graduated at the head of all her 
classes but one, and was chosen to deliver the saluta- 
tory address. Where can you find another girl of her 
age whose record is as bright ! ” 

“ I have found no fault with her record.” 

“ I know that, and, though you do not say so, I 
know that you are very much pleased with her. All 
she lacks in your eyes are larger bones and an addi- 
tion of about fifty pounds of fiesh and fat, avoir- 
dupois.” 

At this sharp turn the mother’s loud, musical laugh 
was heard in the house, and it was the first which had 
gladdened those premises by her since her husband’s 
death. 

That night at the Quinby cottage there was what 


214 : Sickness as a Profession. 

might be called a concert. Mrs. Quinby had, in her 
better days, been quite a vocalist ; she had been tlior- 
oughly trained in a number of old-fashioned singing- 
schools, and for years had carried the soprano in 
the home choir. Charley sang tenor, and Ida was a 
cliarming alto. Alternately she and Helen presided 
at the piano. Helen, as the real mistress of tlie 
occasion, would allow nothing to be sung or done 
only as her mother led the way. What next, 
mother ? ” was heard at the close of every piece. 
It was clearly apparent to Helen that this uniform 
deference pleased her mother. “ Yes,” she said to 
herself, “ attention she must have, even if she has to 
become an invalid to draw it to herself.” 

In those not distant but old-fashioned times a quar- 
terly meeting was an occasion of the most boundless 
hospitality. In former years from eight to a dozen 
brethren from abroad had stopped at the Quinby cot- 
tage from Saturday night till Monday morning ; and 
the next morning Charles referred to the quarterly 
meeting as close at hand, but made no suggestions. 

The mother coolly remarked : 

I have been thinking of that, and I want the elder 
to stop here. I knew him years ago, and I guess you 
will have to kill another turkey.” 

“ All right, mother,” said Helen ; ‘‘ woe to the 
turkeys when the elder comes. And if you want any 
thing of me to-day let me know, for when Charley 
takes Ida home I am going with them.” 


Mrs. Quinby Emerging from her Troubles. 215 

“ You goosie ! Don’t you know they don’t want 
you along ? ” 

“ That may be so, but I shall go all the same.” 

“ Well, then, bake the bread and get up the nick- 
nacks.” 

“ Get me an apron,” said Ida, “ and I’ll help you.” 


216 


Sickness as a Profession. 


CHAPTEK XYIIL 

SUSAN QUEEN OF HER HOUSEHOLD. 

“ ’Tis but one family — the sound is balm, 

A seraph whisper to the wounded heart; 

It lulls the storm of sorrow to a calm, 

And draws the venom from the avenger’s dart.” 

— Eggleston. 

After reacliing Mansfield Charles had his hands 
full to reconcile his statements in regard to his 
motlier with her deportment at the visit, and it was 
well for him that Helen was present as his assistant 
and advocate. The moral and social atmosphere of 
the Quinbj cottage was not at all what Mrs. Maxwell 
had expected to find it. Mrs. Quinby proved her- 
self to be a really pleasant and intelligent lady. But 
the testimony of Helen and Cliarles was not to be 
doubted for a moment, and the Maxwells saw in the 
fact of Mrs. Quinby’s sudden recovery that her sick- 
ness was not of the body but of the mind. Helen 
was especially sensitive in regard to the good name 
of her mother, and would not for a moment tolerate 
the idea that she w^as a conscious hypocrite. 

Mr. Maxwell said : “ Judging from all I can learn, 
the sure antidote for your mother’s ailments is em- 
ployment ; living for an object ; for her children, her 


Susan Queen of Her Household. 217 

church, and society. She is only one of a score of 
similar cases I have known. Quite as many diseases 
have their root in the mind, in habit, in training and 
education, as in the body. Almost any one can be made 
sick unto death by artificial means, without in any 
way touching the body. Every well-furnished med- 
ical library contains volumes which treat exclusively 
of the influence of the mind upon the nerves. I have 
read somewhere the following account of a case which 
bears upon this subject : Three men often met on 
the street a fourth, and they agreed to try an experi- 
ment upon him. For some days, whenever either of 
them met him, he was saluted about as follows : 

‘ Good-morning. Are you well? It seems to me you 
are looking a little pale.’ Such salutations, occurring 
from one to flve times a day, resulted in putting the 
man to bed and calling the doctor. He was then 
visited as a sick man, and the salutations were re- 
versed ; ‘You are looking better; you will be about 
in a few days,’ and these had the opposite effect. 
The man was soon about his business, and then the 
facts were all explained to him. Half the women in 
the country, and perhaps as many men, could be talked 
into sickness in three days, if the purpose of the 
operators was concealed. Were I to engage in such 
an undertaking, I would have the room of my patient 
provided with a finely cushioned arm-chair, labeled, 
‘ For the sick.’ I would have the patient seated in 
it ; then I would find out the location of some pain 


218 Sickness as a Profession. 

which in former years had been experienced ; then I 
would talk about it, philosophize upon it, get my 
patient to think about it, and talk of it, and thus I 
would revive it; then I would hnd or revive some 
other pain, and then another, and if there were no 
defunct pains I would, by talk, create new ones, and 
in three days I would have my subject in the sick- 
chair calling for the doctor. Thousands of facts dem- 
onstrate that such is the influence of mind over the 
body, and doctors are not to be too severely con- 
demned for giving in certain cases bread pills and 
colored water for medicine. Your mother is no 
hypocrite, but a purely mental experience she ascribes 
to her physical nature, and then calls for the doctor 
and for medicine.” 

Helen, Such were the views of father, only he 
would not tolerate the bread pills ; and most heroic- 
ally he carried his notions into effect in dismissing 
the doctor. 

Charles, Yes; and Helen, the day I was here, 
imitated father’s example with like results, and the 
prospect is she will realize complete success. Satur- 
day we are going to quarterly meeting, and motlier 
will select the guests we are to entertain, and next 
week there is to be a visit to Mrs. Johnson’s, and you 
know she is a battery that keeps every thing in motion 
around her. 

Helen, Thus far the coast seems to be clear, but 
on Saturday morning I leave for Bristol ; mother and 


Susan Queen of Her Household. 210 

Charley will be left by themselves again, and I can 
but fear that then, as mother will be much of the 
time alone, there will be a relapse. Has any one a 
suggestion to make to meet that case ? 

Mrs. Maxwell. It will be well for Charles to in- 
vite in quite frequently the young people, especially 
such as are given to music, and fill the house with song 
and good cheer. Make your mother feel all the time 
that you look up to her as manager of all the affairs 
about the house. Make every thing convenient to 
her, but touch no part of her work. She should 
clearly see that if she is not in her place it will be 
vacant, and that she is fully responsible for what she 
does, and for what she refuses to do. If she fails to 
get your breakfast, do the best you can for yourself 
and leave her to do the same, but in no case speak to 
her an ungentle word. If you lived in a village where 
much company would be available your task would 
be easier. But, above every thing else, keep out of 
your house that class of women who delight in noth- 
ing so much as in talking about their complaints and 
their wretchedness. Such generally pride themselves 
in conning over the horrors through which they have 
passed. In the neighborhood where they live they 
are regular disease-breeders ; keep them, if possible, 
out of sight and hearing. 

Charles. Yes; I remember that a visit from Mrs. 
Hagar and Mrs. Woodbridge, a few months after 
father’s death, was the beginning of mother’s relapse. 


220 Sickness as a Profession. 

For two mortal hours she was compelled to listen to 
tlieir stories of aches and pains, and since then I have 
scarcely been able to bear the sight of them. If I 
thought there were danger of their coming to our 
house again I should tell them to keep away. The 
fact is, mother was an only child. She can’t remem- 
ber when she was not petted and made the ob- 
ject of much attention. Especially, when a child, a 
little pouting and fretting on her part would cause 
every thing to bend to her wishes. If she were sick, 
it mattered not how slightly, the doctor was called, 
and she grew up to womanhood feeling that the doc- 
tor was a part of the household furniture. I recollect 
hearing grandmother talk these matters over years 
ago. That mother should want attention, and much 
of it, is not strange. If she does not receive it she is 
sensitive, and this unpleasant feeling of the mind she 
calls sickness, and as the doctor cannot cure it her 
sickness continues. 

Helen, The crucial time in the future will he 
within a week or ten days after I am gone, when the 
visiting and quarterly meeting have passed. If Char- 
ley can manage to interest her in the care of the 
house and cooking, for one month after all these tem- 
porary excitements are over I shall have a good hope 
that she will be well the rest of her life. I think Mr. 
Maxwell’s suggestion, that mother’s mind be kept alive 
to her responsibilities and to the fact that nobody else 
can or will bear them, is of the first importance. It 


Susan Queen of Her Household. 221 

required all tlie nerve I had to allow mother to go 
without her breakfast, and then without a warm din- 
ner, unless she helped herself ; but it was that firmness 
on mj part, more than any thing else I have done, 
which has brought about the present pleasing results. 

Charles, After all that you, Mrs. Maxwell, have 
seen and heard, are you surprised that I have felt, 
and still fee), that our coast is not very clear? 

Mrs. Maxwell, I am not ; but the case is far from 
being as bad and hopeless as you represented when 
here a few days since. My advice is, be patient, be 
true to yourselves and to each other, and trust that 
Power which is wise and able to bring good even out 
of evil. Many start out in the voyage of life with 
prospects as bright as noon, but in a few years storms 
and darkness come upon them and they are wrecked. 
It is better to start in a shadow and have it give way 
to a happy future. At present, you have only to do 
your duty and watch tlie progress of events. You 
have talked of being married about New Year’s day, 
but nothing has been decided upon, and 1 think there 
is wisdom enougli among us to see what is the wise 
thing to do, and when the time comes do it. Let us 
be thankful for this late change, and that matters are 
as well as they are ; let us be happy and trust God for 
the future. 

Helen. Mrs. Maxwell, you have expressed my opin- 
ion exactly. 

Ida. I think the subject quite exhausted. 


222 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

Charles. Yes, and our time too ; Helen, we must 
start for liome. 

Standing in the door ready to leave, Helen said : 

“I hope you will see mother at the quarterly meet- 
ing feeling as well as when you left her. Of course 
we will see you at Mrs. Johnson’s. Good-by.” 

And thus these deeply sympathizing counselors 
parted ; full of fears, and yet cherishing hopes for the 
future full of blessedness to all. 

The sun was just going down as Charles and Helen 
reached liome. They found the supper table set and 
their mother reading the evening paper. With a 
cheery tone of voice she said : 

‘‘ Well, Helen, I suppose you have had a good old- 
fashioned time, and that Charley is as happy as a clam 
at high tide, and if a good supper will help matters 
along you can have it as soon as you are ready.” 

“ Let me step Dan into the stable first,” said Charles. 

“Yes; Dan has done his part well, and should be 
cared for.” 

The fact was Miss Ida had become an interesting 
personage to Mrs. Quinby, and her animated face 
and beautiful form had been much in her mind dur- 
ing the day ; and the thought that she might become 
an inmate of her house was not unpleasant to contem- 
plate. She, in fact, was the only one who had passed 
the point of all trouble in regard to Charley’s mar- 
riage, and was ready to have it take place. 

After supper mother and daughter washed and 


Susan Queen of Her Household. 223 

put away the dishes, while Charles attended to the 
outside chores. The mother improved the absence 
of Charles to make some inquiries into his love affair. 
She said to Helen : 

“I suppose you know exactly how this matter 
stands.” 

“ It is certain that they think much of each other, 
and intend to marry.” 

“ What do you think of Ida as a farmer’s wife ? ” 

“ Ida Maxwell will make Charley a good wife, be 
his business or profession what it miay, and in no 
case will she be simply a drudge — a sort of a family 
beast. Her father nearly worships her, and he is 
able to give her a good start in the world anywhere. 
I have with me the one thousand dollars I took away 
with me after father’s death, and Mr. Drayton is un- 
willing I should keep it. I think it really belongs to 
Charley — if I only knew how to get it into his hands 
and not wound his pride. Charley is a capital busi- 
ness man, and will make a living anywhere, and get 
ahead if he has half a chance.” 

Didn’t you say they thought of marrying about 
'New Year’s?” 

“ There has been such talk ; but there is this diffi- 
culty: Charles thinks that it is due to a married 
woman that she be mistress of her own house, or the 
house she lives in; but as this is your house and 
your home no one but yourself can be mistress of it. 
The idea that any one is to take your place he says is 


224 Sickness as a Profession. 

not to be thought of. Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell say 
that he is right. How, then, can Charley marry, and 
place his wife in a wife’s position here?” 

“ Well, he does seem to be in a corner, poor fellow ! 
but if he and Ida think half as much of each other 
as you say they do they will contrive to break through 
somewhere and in some way.” 

“Well, mother, perhaps you might make a sugges- 
tion which would be of value to them.” 

“It seems to me that you have been hair-spinning 
and hair-splitting and refining till you have got your- 
selves into much unnecessary trouble. I suppose if 
Charles marries that his wife will be my daughter-in- 
law, and that our relation will be that of mother and 
daughter, and that substantially she will take your 
place in the household. As to the mistress or boss- 
ing business, that should be left out, and not thought 
of by any one.” 

“Mother, let me hear you make that statement 
again.” 

“Among grown-up people, who are sensible and 
mean to do right, having common interests, there is 
no need of bossing, as you call it, but all are free to 
do as they please. Should Charles marry Ida she 
will take the place here she now has at home, or the 
place which will be made vacant by your absence.” 

“ I see the point you make, and, though this sub- 
ject was talked over at Maxwell’s, you have put into 
it more simple, good sense than the whole of us.” 


225 


Susan Queen of Her Household. 

The fact is, Helen was going away, Mrs. Qiiinby 
had been delighted with Ida, and the idea of filling 
by the marriage of her son the vacancy caused by 
Helen’s absence had pleased her fancy, and when she 
came to look the world over she could think of ik 
one who was likely to suit her better than Miss Max- 
well. 

The coming in of Charles at this moment inter- 
rupted the conversation, and taking her seat at the 
piano Helen said : 

“ Come, mother and Charles, let us have some 
music — let us end up a pleasant day with song. Se- 
lect something, mother.” 

“Eock of Ages,” ‘‘Hearer, My God, to Thee,” and 
“ Jesus, Lover of My Soul,” were sung, and not often 
could sweeter music be produced than in this family. 
After the singing was over, the mother turned to her 
son, and in a pleasant, bantering, but very winsome 
way said : 

“Come, Charley, make a confidant of your mother, 
and tell her all about your Ida love affair.” 

Helen understood what this playfulness meant, and 
encouraged Charley to be free with his mother, but 
he was awkward, and could say but little. However, 
with Helen’s help, all the essential facts in the case 
were brought to light. The mother then made this 
proposition : 

“ Charley, if you will bring that little miss up 

here, and permit me first to adopt her as my own 
15 


226 


Sickness as a Pkofession. 


daughter, in her relation to me to take Helen’s place, 
you may marry her as soon as you please.” 

“You don’t mean to banish Helen, do you?” 

A rousing laugh from Helen followed this touch 
of jealousy. 

“ Hot at all,” responded the mother. “ Don’t you 
suppose my heart is large enough to take in two 
daughters?” 

“ Mother,” said Charles, “ there meet, in this case, 
two incompatible things, and I see no way to harmon- 
ize them. This is your house. You are the queen 
of it, and with your dominion there is to be no inter- 
ference. A wife, in starting out in life, from the first 
day, should be mistress of her household; her hus- 
band wants to see her such ; and how can these things 
be here?” 

“ If I must be queen cannot the queen be mother 
of a daughter and heir-apparent ? ” 

“Do you mean, mother, that Charley’s wife could 
take my place, and that you could be mother to her 
as you are to me ? ” 

“I hope my suggestion has not excited your 
jealousy, but should not that be the case if Charley 
marries ? ” 

“ Most certainly it should. I am not offended, but 
delighted to see a beautiful truth so clearly expressed.” 

“If it be the desire of Charles and Ida to marry, 
there need be no delay if she will be happy to take 
your place in the family, with its rights, freedom. 


Susan Queen of Her Household. 227 

privileges, and responsibilities — that is, to do here as 
she does at home ; so that we would be one family — 
mother and children.” 

Charley did not know what to think, either of his 
mother or her suggestions. An aspect of life was 
presented he had never thought of before. His the- 
ory of starting in life, which, as an absolute truth, had 
appeared as clear as noonday, was rapidly dissolving 
like wax before a fire. His deep, somber seriousness 
excited in his mother a feeling of merriment. But, 
sobering down so as to bring herself into his mood, 
she said : 

“ Can Helen be more of a queen anywhere than she 
is and ever has been here ? ” 

“ O, well, but she is your own daughter.” 

‘‘ Then you are not willing that your wife should 
be my daughter, even though I adopt her before she 
becomes your wife. Are you not a little hard on 
your mother ? Eh ? ” 

Charley was badly cornered, but quite as much 
surprised and delighted. Helen was immensely 
amused at her mother’s wit and her brother’s dis- 
comfiture. 

“ Mother, is this serious talk, or is it all banter 
and nonsense ? ” 

“ It is serious talk ; you must judge whether it is 
nonsense or not.” 


228 


Sickness as a Pi^o^'ESSIOl^. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

SUSAN AT THE QUARTERLY MEETING-. 

“It were a goodly and a glorious sight, 

The assembled church from time’s remotest age: 

Priest, patriarch, ruler, lawgiver, and sage 
And they who soared the poet’s lofty flight, 

Psalmist or seer; or fought the Gospel’s fight, 

God’s truth proclaimed, or stored the sacred page ; 

With all of less renown who dared engage 
Sin, and were conquerors in the Saviour’s might.” 

— Bishop Manx. 

It so happened that the presiding elder at tliis 
quarterly meeting had in former years been Susan’s 
pastor, and a favorite in her father’s family. It was 
during his pastorate at Auburn that she became a 
member of the church in that place, and from his 
hand she received the ordinance of baptism. His 
name and voice were associated with the happiest 
period of her life. They had not met for many 
years, and Dr. Shaw’s appearance in the pulpit awak- 
ened recollections of the most inspiring character. 
After the service these facts were soon known, and 
all other parties waived their rights, and the doctor 
became the guest, during the quarterly meeting, of 
Mrs. Quinby. Besides tlie elder a local preacher 
by the name of A. S. Wilson, and his wife, accepted 


Susan at the Quarterly Meeting. 229 

her hospitalities, On reaching home, Mr. Wilson fell 
in with Charles, and was with him much of the time 
while about his chores. Mrs. Wilson took to Helen, 
and Dr. Shaw and Mrs. Quinby were left to them^ 
selves to talk over the past, Mrs. Quinby gave an 
account of her excellent husband and of his sud- 
den death, and referred wdth animation, if not a little 
pride, to her daughter and son, but said little or noth- 
ing of herself. Many inquiries were made in regard 
to old acquaintances, and both were surprised to lind 
that so many had passed away. Dr. Shaw was a 
strong man, full of life, and of very wide informa- 
tion. He was a power in his Church, and at the fire- 
side an inspiration. The vigorous and animated Mrs. 
Quinby in conversation with him was one kind of 
woman, but sitting alone in her sick-cliair thinking of 
herself, and searching for something that might be 
done for her, she w^as quite another wmman. She 
found herself very susceptible to the influence of Dr. 
Shaw’s active mind and wide intelligence. It seemed 
to Helen that her mother was at her best, and that this 
event was a godsend to her family. As the elder left 
the Quinby cottage Monday morning, earnest prayer 
was offered for the peace and health of each member 
of the family. He accepted the invitation of Mrs. 
Quinby and Charles to make their house his home as 
long as he remained on the district. Mrs. Quinby 
attended all the services of the quarterly meeting 
and participated in the exercises as in former years, 


230 Sickness as a Profession. 

and for a long time afterward referred to the occa- 
sion as one of the best she had ever enjoyed. 

On the following Wednesday the visit to Mrs. 
Johnson’s took place, and on Saturday Helen left for 
Bristol, her own home. There were present at the 
party Mrs. Quinby and Helen, Mrs. Maxwell and Ida, 
Mr. and Mi*s. Hancock, elderly people we have met 
before. Miss Irene Johnson and Miss Ida were mates 
at the boarding-school and warm friends. Mrs. 
Quinby and Helen were at Johnson’s at least an hour 
in advance of time, and Helen and Mrs. Johnson 
spent much of that time by themselves, leaving Mr. 
Johnson and Irene to entertain Mrs. Quinby. Helen 
had some matters slie wished to leave in judicious 
hands, to be kept or acted upon in her absence as oc- 
casion might or might not arise, and her confidence in 
the prudence and judgment of Mrs. Johnson knew no 
limits. She was not only a friend, but she was wise, 
alert, and not very liable to make any mistake. Helen 
wished to effect every thing which was necessary or 
possible to be done to keep alive her mother’s present 
interest in the church and world. She desired Mrs. 
Johnson in her own way to make the most of her 
mother’s playful notions in regard to the adoption of 
Ida, as no harm could grow out of it. These sugges- 
tions put Mrs. Johnson on the scent of game which 
was exactly to her taste. All she feared was a lack 
of opportunity, but she thought that, if alertness could 
not find one, one must be created. 


Susan at the Quarterly Meeting. 231 

About eleven o’clock tlie company were together, 
and to the surprise of all Mrs. Quin by was as full of 
animation as the best. 

“ Helen tells me, Mrs. Quinby,” said Mrs. Johnson, 
“ that she expects to leave for Bristol on Saturday, 
and how do you expect to get along without her ? ” 

“ O, well enough, I think. I don’t worry about it. 
I am thinking of adopting a girl to fill her place, and 
possibly I may get a better one.” 

“ A hard thing that will be to do,” chimed in a half 
dozen voices. 

“Well, as Helen must leave I tliink that will be the 
wise thing for me to do.” 

“ Will you allow any of your friends to make recom- 
mendations of a party for your consideration ? ” said 
Mrs. Hancock. 

“ Certainly ; but, after all, 1 shall pick for myself. 
I would not allow of any interference in that matter, 
even from Charley. I want some one who can be my 
daughter, as much so as Helen has been and is, for I 
do not intend to banish her ; but she only comes and 
goes, and I want a daughter in the house all the time 
that I can talk with.” 

For some time hot blushes had been flashing across 
the face of Ida Maxwell, as she saw that many eyes 
were turned upon her. Out of sympathy for her 
daughter Mrs. Maxwell felt a little embarrassment, 
but she was delighted with the animated tone of Mrs. 
Quinby. 


232 Sickness as a Peofession. 

The excitement reached its height when Mother 
Hancock said : 

“Well, Mrs. Quinby, since you allow of recom- 
mendations, permit me to refer to the blushing Miss 
Ida that sits at my right.” 

This was too much for Ida, and she shot out of the 
room followed by her friend Irene, and the room was 
filled with laughter and confusion. In a moment 
quietness was restored, as all were anxious to hear the 
response of Mrs. Quinby. She said : 

“Yes, she is the very girl I have chosen to be my 
daughtei-.” 

“ Do you consent to that, Mrs. Maxwell ? ” said 
Mrs. J ohnson. 

“Yes, but only on condition that her son Charles 
be my boy.” 

“ Most cheerfully I consent,” said Mrs. Quinby. 

Every voice shouted, “It is a bargain, it is a bar- 
gain ! ” 

Helen went after Ida, pulled her into the room, and 
introduced her to the company as her sister, and then 
taking her to Mrs. Quinby said, “ This is our mother,” 
and the mother kissed her children. 

Mrs. Quinby took a seat near Mrs. Maxwell and 
said : 

“How this appears as nonsense to all this com- 
pany, but I assure you my soul hungers and has con- 
stantly longed ever since Helen left home that some- 
thing like this might become a reality.” 


Susan at the Quarterly Meeting. 233 

“ I believe you,” said Mrs. Hopkins ; “for it stands to 
reason that with Helen away there must be a void in 
the house. It’s a good bargain to swap off Cliarles 
for a daughter, for a girl you can have in the house, 
where she can be company, and that Ida can’t be 
beat.” 

As if to carry the joke to completion, Ida, address- 
ing Mrs. Quinby, said : 

“ Dear mother, I feel higlily complimented by the 
choice you have made.” 

Amidst the laughter which followed, the voice of 
Motlier Hancock was heard once more : 

“ There, I knew you couldn’t make any thing off 
that girl.” 

Helen and Ida were soon missed from the parlor, 
but when or where they went no one seemed to know. 
“ It is but natural that sisters should be together,” 
said Mrs. Johnson. 

Mrs. Maxwell was not the least abashed that any 
one should think that in the near future Charles 
Quinby might be her son-in law. 

When by tliemselves Helen gave Miss Ida a full 
account of her mother’s wliim in regard to the mat- 
ter of lier adoption. “ It was suggested to her,” Helen 
said, “ by Charles’s objection to marrying and bringing 
a wife there, as both wife and mother could not be 
mistress of the house. She has really fallen in love 
with you, and she wants you to be as absolute mis- 
tress of your affairs as she is of her own. With her 


234 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

this adoption business is no sham; her heart is set 
upon it. She is in dead earnest, and when jou come 
to her house she wants you to come as a daughter, 
as much so as I do. She would be glad to have you 
come to-morrow and stay right along with her.” 

“Let me step into the room and send mother to 
you,” said Ida, “ for I want she should hear what you 
have to say about this matter. What a change must 
have come over your mother’s mind since that solemn 
visit of Charles to our house ! ” 

As Ida entered the parlor Miss Irene Johnson mis- 
chievously saluted her as “ Mrs. Quinby.” 

“ Miss Quinby,” she responded. 

In a few moments Mrs. Maxwell was missing, but 
no notice was taken of it. She did not appear till 
called to dinner, and as she and Helen entered the 
room together it was apparent that they had been en- 
gaged in earnest consultation. 

The mischievous Mrs. Johnson seated Helen at 
her mother’s right and Ida at her left, and as the 
play of knives and forks commenced she quietly re- 
marked, 

“Take notice and see if Mrs. Quinby shows 
any partiality for either one above the other of her 
daughters.” 

“Please do so,” said Miss Ida, “but I can tell you 
beforehand that you will not see any.” 

“Say what you will,” said Mrs. Quinby, “you can 
excite no jealousy between my children.” 


Susan at the Quarterly Meeting. 235 

It was evident from the coolness of these remarks 
that there was no more merriment to be got out of 
the adoption business. To Mrs. Quinbj the whole 
farce was as near to reality as she could make it, and 
after Helen’s explanations to Mrs. Maxwell and Ida 
they saw its full significance. To start the business 
Mrs. Johnson touched the right chord, and then it 
ran itself and became the feature of the party. 

Before this merry group separated Mrs. Hancock 
demanded of Mrs. Quinby the promise of a visit. 
She said : 

“ I sha’n’t make a party, for I want a good old- 
fashioned visit with you ; and Charley must come 
after you early enough to get his supper.” 

“ May be,” said Father Hancock, “ Charley won’t 
like that — it will spile a half day ; he needn’t come. 
I’ll hitch up old Bill, and get you and take you hum.” 

‘‘Why, father,” said Mrs. Hancock, “folks’ll think 
you are afeared Charley’ll get a supper here.” 

“ O bosh ! Ho, they won’t ; they know father Han- 
cock better’n that.” 

“Well, father, you seem to think Susan wants to 
ride with you.” 

“ He is right about that,” said Mrs. Quinby, “ for I 
like a beau of experience.” 

Charles now appeared at the gate with horse and 
carriage to take his mother and Helen home. As 
the shortest way of answering Mrs. Johnson’s appeals 
he came into the house and ate a supper. This was 


236 Sickness as a Profession. 

a signal for a fresh outbreak of merriment. He was 
told of the adaption business, and of the swap which 
had been made by his mother and Mrs. Maxwell. In 
all this business Helen and Mrs. Johnson played a 
conspicuous part. Ida happened to be in the cham- 
ber with her good friend Irene, and Charley had to 
play his part alone, but he was equal to the occasion, 
with Mother Hancock’s help. He said : 

“ As Helen is about to leave us, what is more nat- 
ural than that mother should desire some one to take 
her place, and in the selection she has made I am 
sure she could not have suited me better.” 

It was clear that not much could be made out of 
Charley this time. 

On their return about sundown, to the surprise of 
all, they found Mr. Drayton sitting on the steps of 
the Quinby cottage, unable to get in or find any one 
about the premises. This was but an addition to the 
excitements of the day. Helen had often wished her 
husband were present, as she desired his judgment on 
many things. The happy turn domestic affairs had 
taken greatly pleased him. The policy Helen and 
Charles had adopted to rescue their mother met his 
approval, and he made some valuable suggestions, 
which were afterward carried into effect. He took 
special pains to make himself agreeable to his mother- 
in-law and gain her conlidence. He felt a profound 
interest in Charles, and had weighed well the difficul- 
ties by which he was environed. He had further de- 


Susan at the Quarteely Meeting. 237 

termined that if his stay on the Quinby estate could 
not be made agreeable he would, if possible, break 
the legal bonds which held him there. 

It was thought that Charles had made a shrewd 
though just bargain with his mother, to keep, in all 
events, the property out of the hands of foreigners ; 
but at the same time he bound himself in doing it, 
and lie was the first to feel the pressure of his own 
far-sightedness. This was the question Mr. Drayton 
was considering. 

The last time Charles was at the Maxwells’ he was, 
as he said, “ in a corner,” and in almost utter despair. 
He saw no way out of his contract, and his mind was 
about made up to grant Miss Ida a release from her 
engagement, as at that time it appeared to him that 
he could not fulfill it on his part. The full and free 
conversation he had with the father, mother, and 
daughter, and especially the mother’s words of en- 
couragement, had lessened by dividing his burdens; 
still the obstruction was there, and presented no pas- 
sage. But really light had come out of darkness ; 
the source of all the trouble had become the helper, 
the difficulty had advanced the enterprise, and the 
way was now open for all parties to do as they 
pleased. The bold strokes of Helen had cleaved in 
two the mountain, and a passage was opened. 

Charles could delay no longer, and the day for his 
marriage must be fixed ; he must see Ida and her par- 
ents, and for the sake of forming an acquaintance 


238 Sickness as a Profession. 

M’itli the family Mr. Drayton accompanied him to 
Mansfield. Helen was glad to spend the day with her 
mother. 

While the mother proceeded about her domestic 
affairs Helen picked up her things, packed her trunk, 
and got ready to return home on the morrow. 

The mother seemed to have utterly forgotten that 
she had ever been sick, or that extraordinary means 
had been resorted to for her recovery. Helen would 
have been gratified to know that her mother was fully 
convinced that her trouble was mental, and that she 
w’as sound in body, but as she made no sort of refer- 
ence to sickness or to their past terrible experience 
she judged it best to be silent herself on that subject. 

The next morning, as she was taking leave of her 
mother, she said : 

‘‘As soon as the snows of April are gone you must 
come and see me, and calculate to stay at least three 
months.” 

Tlie mother looked sharply into the eyes of her 
daughter, to see if she could read any special signifi- 
cance in this invitation, but imperturbable calmness 
prevailed there. 


Charles in the Hour of Victory. 239 


CHAPTER XX. 

CHARLES IN THE HOUR OF VICTORY. 

“ Wlien the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock, 
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttiii’ turkey-cock, 
And the clackin’ of the guineas and the cluckin’ of the hens, 

And the rooster’s hallylooyers as he tiptoes on the fence — 

0 ’tis then’s the time a feller is a feelin’ at his best, 

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest. 

As he leaves the house bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock 
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in tlie shock.” 

Helen has returned home, the quarterly meeting 
has past, the visits are made, and Charley and his 
mother find themselves engaged in the mere hum- 
drum of toil and the dull routine of domestic care. 
The snow is deep, and zero weatlier prevails. The 
dreariness without by contrast gives the warm rooms 
within a tone of cheerfulness. The crucial time in 
Mrs. Quinby’s experience, which filled tlie mind of 
Helen with dread as often as she thought of it, had 
come ; but Charley was as robust as a bison and as gay 
as a lark. The w^eather and the world at large suited 
him exactly. His quickening voice could be heard 
among the horses and cattle, and when about the 
house he was given to merriment and song. From 
the day that Helen left he aimed to make his mother 
a companion, an associate, and even a playmate. A 


210 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

widower of years and experience came one day to 
look at some blooded slieep lie wished to purchase, 
but Charley, in a mischievous way, put to his mother 
a different construction upon the event. In a ban- 
tering way he said she was the real object of his visit, 
and the sheep business was only an excuse. But he 
found her as keen at pleasantry as himself. As she 
reproached liim for not treating her guest more civ- 
illy, inviting him into the house, and introducing him, 
he promised to do better next time. Charley was 
careful to arrange every thing for his mother’s con- 
venience, but he offered her no help, nor interfered 
in any way with her business. He was up early in 
the morning, started the fires, put the tea-kettle on 
the range, then went out about his work, and was not 
seen till the bell called him to breakfast. He said 
but little to his mother about her affairs, but was al- 
ways talking about his own, and asking her advice, 
lie kept fine stock, and every few days she must 
go out to the barn and look at some of his fa- 
vorites, and give them salt, “ It pleases the cattle,” 
he said, “ for they are fond of women.” He compli- 
mented her by calling a very fine heifer he was rais- 
ing “ Susan.” All these little attentions she relished 
very highly, and without question was happy. Time 
passed on, and the Quinby home was as peaceful as 
it was quiet. Mrs. Johnson occasionally called, as 
she had promised Helen she would do, and Miss Ida 
had made a visit. Kev. James Archibald was quite 


Charles in the Hour of Victory. 241 

frequently at the house. Helen from week to week 
was kept informed in regard to all these matters, and 
her anxious fears were fast fading but. ' 

Winter set in, that season, early* and with great 
severity. Snow to the depth of two feet fell in No- 
vember, and the ground was not bare again till the 
first of April. The monotonous and lonely in-door 
life thus necessitated was a sore trial to Mrs. Quinby. 
When present Charley acted as a kind of battery, but 
duty called him much of the time from the house. 
One evening, as the snow was falling fastj and the 
wind blew furiously around the house, assailing the 
shade-trees and attacking eveiy window and shutter, 
he found that the tone of his mother’s feelings had sunk 
to zero, and that to rally them surpassed his ability. 
She retired early, and left him alone to meditate upon 
the condition of affairs. As the day had been pleas- 
ant he ascribed this depression to the sudden change 
in the weather. The next morning after starting a 
fire he called to his mother, and was not much sur- 
prised at her reply : 

‘‘ I don’t feel like getting up this morning. You 
will find in the pantry victuals enough cooked for 
your breakfast, and you will have to help yourself. 
I may be better by noon.” 

Charles sprang into his mother’s room really 
alarmed, feeling that she must be truly sick. 

“ Mother, I will immediately go for the doctor.” 

To this she protested ; and really she dreaded to 
16 


242 Sickness as a Peofession. . 

see a doctor. But Cliarles was persistent. He finally 
so far yielded as to say : 

“ Mother, I will do up my chores, and if, after get- 
ting up and stirring around a little, you do not feel 
better I must call the doctor.” 

“Well, let me rest a little, and I will see.” 

Charley went to the barns, and was gone at least 
two hours, caring for his stock and breaking paths 
through the deep snow. When he came in the table 
was set, and his mother occupied the arm-chair with 
a breakfast shawl thrown over her shoulders. With 
a tender yet cheery voice he said, with emphasis : 

“ Glad, mother, to see you up ; hope you will be 
able to breakfast with me ; shall be ready in five 
minutes.” 

This irruption took place as he passed through the 
house to the back yard. His words and manner 
were full of strength and fire. When he came in 
again food for both was steaming on the table. 
Charley then made no further allusion to sickness or 
doctors, but plunged into a scheme he had partially 
matured for purchasing an adjoining fifty-acre piece 
of land, and earnestly demanded his mother’s advice. 

“ Can you pay for it ? ” she inquired. 

“I think so. Helen and Drayton refuse to keep 
the money they took away, and they have put it in 
bank to my credit, and I have a few hundreds be- 
sides, and it costs only two thousand dollars.” 

“ Of what use will it be if you have it ? ” 


Charles in the Hour of Yictory. 243 

“Tliere are on it twentj-tw© acres of timber, and 
that is valuable, and the cleared land will be good 
for pasturing, for it is well watered.” 

“ I think it will be safe to make the purchase, but 
do as you think best.” 

When breakfast was over Charles thought it wise 
to spend, as far as possible, the day about the house, 
and interest in one way and another his mother’s 
mind. After every thing was put in order, as 
mother and son sat by the comfortable fire, present- 
ing a striking contrast to the snowy tempest that 
continued to rage without, Charles said : 

Mother, did any person call here yesterday while 
I was absent?” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Woodbridge called ; why ?” 

Then I see that she does not neglect us. How 
is Mrs. Woodbridge?” 

O dear, she is miserable enough ! ” 

“ What is the matter with her ? ” 

“It is hard to tell, unless you say almost every 
thing.” 

“ Didn’t she name her complaints ? ” 

‘ Yes ; told them over a half dozen times.” 

“ Can’t you mention some of them ? ” 

“ They are all summed up in one — the miserar 

Uesr 

“But, mother, specify some of them — at least 
one.” 

“Well, nervousness, dyspepsia, neuralgia, and then 


244^ Sickness as a Profession. 

she has pains in her face and roots of her tongue, 
her limbs sometimes ache, and she thinks she has 
the rheumatism, her back is lame and she can stoop 
over only with difficulty, she often has a terrible 
headache, and — in a general way — she has awfully 
distressed times.” 

“Well, well! mother, don’t go any farther. What 
you have mentioned is enough to kill a yoke of oxen. 
And was her tongue glib enough to go over all these 
diseases a half dozen times?” 

“I could not see that any thing was wrong with 
her tongue.” 

“ How long was she here ? ” 

“About three hours — while Mr. Woodbridge 
went to the station and back.” 

“ She could have talked of but little else except 
her aches and diseases.” 

“ Of nothing else; and she gave me a chance to say 
scarcely a word.” 

“ How did you feel after listening for three hours 
to her rigmarole of nonsense ? ” 

“I felt tired and sick, and had to lie down and 
rest.” 

“Well, the wonder is that you are not as badly off 
as Mrs. Woodbridge herself. I will tix matters as far 
as she is concerned for the future ; but, mother, I want 
you should now take your oath that you will never 
listen to another such conversation. If you should 
ever meet Mrs. Hagar or Mrs. Woodbridge, and they 


Chakles in the Hour of Victory. 245 

begin to parade before you tlieir diseases, tell them 
you are not tlieir doctor, and that such details of 
their miseries will neither do them nor any body 
else any good. Like leprous and small-pox patients, 
such persons should be compelled to stay at home. 
Their whims and nonsense are contagious. We do 
them a service by shutting their mouths, for the 
more they tell of their miseries the greater their 
miseries become. Cares, mental struggles, and 
moral aspirations people may talk about, and in sym- 
pathy there will be strength, but it is a horrid con- 
dition of mind for one to find a chief delight in 
conning over and telling to any body that will listen 
how miserable one is.” 

“I know, Charles, from some experience I have 
had, that what you say is true. Habit in all such 
matters is a tyrant which it is hard to concpier. 
Associate mind and body too closely and the body 
will depress the mind, and then the mind, in a 
yielding mood and turned in on the body only, 
makes matters worse. Mind can prey upon the body 
as the body cannot prey upon the mind. It has taken 
me a long time to learn this lesson, but, Charles, be 
assured, I have it at last.” 

“Mind was given us as the subject of thought, 
and its proper theater of action is the realm of 
ideas, embracing all social and moral interests. 
These are, for the most part, outside of ourselves; 
and the life of the body performs its functions best 


24:6 Sickness as a Profession. 

when let alone and the mind is attending to its own 
business.” 

“Yes, and mind may become devoted — yes, en- 
slaved — to any subject, and unfortunately the bodily 
life is one of them.” 

“ I am glad, mother, to see the clearness of your 
views along this line, for they fortify me in a reso- 
lution I made some years ago to rule the body by 
letting it alone, and not even thinking of it, only 
legitimately.” 

“ One needs not only clearness of views, but a 
steady and firm resolution to carry them into 
effect.” 

“ I find no trouble on that score, mother.” 

“ No ; and for the reason that you have never been 
the victim of the education and the mistakes from 
which I have suffered.” 

“Yet to understand a question is half the solution.” 

As night came on and Charley again found himself 
alone, engaged about his chores, he felt that a great 
and good day’s work had been done. Not a cloud 
appeared in all his coast. He now saw in the light 
of his mother’s confession that for years, without 
knowing it, she had made sickness a profession. In 
their late difficulty he gave all the credit of the good 
results to the resolute and decisive action of his sister. 
He was pleased to see from the statements made that 
morning by his mother that she now clearly saw the 
root element of her difficulty, and was girding herself 


Charles in the Hour of Victory. 2i7 

with firm resolves for the future. He attached the 
highest value to the fact that at last she not only saw 
but acknowledged the truth in the case. 

Dr. Simpson, as a friend, had put into Charley’s 
hand Dr. Tuke’s medical work, whicli treats at great 
length of the influence mind has over the body, and 
having read it with the closest attention he judged 
it best to put this book into the hands of his mother. 
She read it carefully, but never had much to say of 
its contents. Charley also made himself familiar 
with other cases of tliis kind, and he was able to 
find tliem in almost every neighbor! lood. The fol- 
lowing case interested him much, as it touched his 
own sex : 

Mr. John Buckner, a large, fresh -looking, stalwart 
man, had been supported for some years by his wife 
and daughter. In the early part of a severe winter 
the daughter was taken sick, as the consequence of 
much exposure to the cold. It now became appar- 
ent that the cow in the barn, a third of a mile 
away, must be left to die there, be given away, some- 
body hired to care for it, or this man must get off the 
couch and feed it. The mother said, “ Sell or give 
the old cow away, for it can earn nothing, and my 
hands can’t support you all and buy fodder.” The 
daughter objected, and the father got up, drew on 
his boots, put on his overcoat, and waded through the 
snow, two feet in depth, and cared for the beast. 
This he continued to do in all sorts of weather during 


248 Sickness as a Peofession. 

the winter, and ever since has enjoyed good healtli. 
In looking into this business notliing surprised 
Charles so much as the fact that his mother was only 
one of a multitude, and of the multitude but few 
were redeemed. 

For honest, skillful physicians Cliarles entertained 
the highest respect, but another class, not very 
small, either, whose sole business is to secure a fee, 
he was careful to avoid. To be a quack in medicine 
is bad, to be a quack in character is worse, but 
to be a quack in both respects was, he thought, un- 
endurable. 

But the winter was terrible without and the nights 
were long, and Charles did not feel free to be away 
from home much of the time, and agreeably to his 
mother’s earnest request he brought Miss Ida there 
to stay a week. A part of this time Miss Irene John- 
son was also a guest. This gave Charley a chance to 
get into the woods and take some logs to the saw-mill 
and look after his summer’s fuel. Young people 
frequented the Quinby cottage, and Charley was 
never too tired for a musical entertainment. Mrs. 
Quinby cheerfully confessed to Charles that Ida was 
the queen of the ladies who visited at her house. 
The law of affinity seemed to prevail between the 
women, for mutually they were drawn toward each 
other. 

During this visit Charles and Ida planned for a 
visit at her father’s about the first of January, and 


Charles in the Hour of Yici'ory. 249 

tlieir intention was then to set tlie day for the cele- 
bration of their nuptials. Hot much was said to 
Mrs. Quiiibj on the subject, as her mind 'was well 
known, and she said the sooner her daughter, as 
she called her, became an inmate of the house the 
better. 

On Hew Year’s day this visit was made, and the 
only regret expressed by any was that Helen and her 
husband were not present. When the reference was 
made to his sister Charles said : “ Helen doesn’t make 
many mistakes.” 

Charley watched for an opportunity when he could 
at the same moment get the attention of his mother, 
Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, and said : 

“As Ida and myself have the consent of you all 
to be married we have judged that the 22d of Febru- 
ary will be a suitable time for that event to take 
place, but we will be glad to learn if there are any 
objections.” 

“ Surely,” said Mrs. Qiiinby, “ I can wait that length 
of time if you can, but I can see no reason why you 
put it off so long.” 

“Less than two months!” said Mrs. Maxwell; “I 
am sure that will not be very long,” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Quinby, “I am to have Jane 
Miller in my house two w^eeks this month to do some 
sewing for me — a very nice girl, yon know — and if 
Ida will come and stop with us at that time I will 
consent to the long delay.” 


250 


Sickness as a Profession. 


“Well I like Jenny,” said Ida; “I have known 
her since I was a child, and she has been my teacher 
in Sunday-school for five years. Can you spare me, 
mother ? ” 

“ I suppose I will have to,” gruffly responded Mrs. 
Maxwell. 

“Let the 22d of February, then, be the day,” said 
Ida. 


Susan on a Visit to hek Daughter. 251 


CHAPTER XXL 

SUSAN ON A VISIT TO HER DAUGHTER. 

“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased; 

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; 

Raze out the written tablets of the brain ; 

And, with some oblivious antidote, 

Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff 
■Which weighs upon the heart ? ” — Shakespeare. 

As time passed on Charley’s nuptials were duly 
celebrated. His bride easily became accustomed to 
her new home, the snows melted from the hill-sides 
and flooded the valleys, the chirp of the blue-bird and 
the song of the robin were heard in the grove, and 
now Mrs. Quinby is packing her trunk, preparatory 
to a visit to her daughter Helen, in Bristol, a distance 
by rail of three hundred and thirty-one miles. Helen 
was not at her brother’s wedding, though Mr. Dray- 
ton was there as one of the most honored of the 
guests. Taking an early train, Mrs. Quinby reached 
her daughter’s home on time and found the family 
well. Though somewhat weary she did not retire till 
a late hour, as it required a long time to answer 
Helen’s questions, to relate the particulars of the 
wedding, and her experience with her daughter-in- 
law as an inmate of her house. It was with a little 


252 Sickness as a Peofession. 

personal pride that slie referred to the fact that Ida 
felt as much at home with her as ever she did in her 
father’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Drayton were pleased 
to listen, as these narratives were all of a hopeful and 
joyous nature. They had planned to make her visit 
to Bristol as pleasant and protracted as possible. 
Daily she received calls from the friends of the fam- 
ily, but really these were an annoyance to her, as she 
had unfortunately all her life-time recoiled from the 
society of strangers. She thought to herself : 

“ I am nothing to any of these people, their atten- 
tions to me are but expressions of respect for Drayton 
and Helen, and what will I care for them when I am 
home again ? ” 

Mr. Drayton had intended to give Mrs. Quinby an 
extensive view of the country surrounding Bristol, 
as well as of the city itself. The town was built 
on both banks of a river which swept through a 
broad valley, on all sides surrounded by sand and 
limestone bluffs. He intended that from their sum- 
mits she should obtain a view of all parts of the city 
and surrounding country ; but from the day of her 
arrival the roads had been very bad, the season was 
rainy, and for days together the sun was not to be 
seen. After some time Helen discovered that her 
mother was struggling with her feelings, and that, in 
spite of all she could do, she was lonesome and de- 
pressed. Her own home, where she had spent the 
most of a life-time, stood on a gentle elevation, from 


Susan on a Yisrr to hee Daughter. 253 

which, in all directions, she could view a large ex- 
pansion of picturesque country, and it seemed to her 
that Bristol was almost smothered to death by the 
clasp of immovable hills. She said to Mr. Drayton : 

“I would like to see some giant put his hands 
against these hills and push them back out of the 
way, for I don’t believe I could live very long shut 
up in this pen.” 

It was to prevent or counteract this feeling that 
Mr. Drayton was anxious to take Mrs. Quinby about 
the country, but bad roads and storms forbade it. It 
was with horror that Mrs. Drayton saw that her 
mother would not be able to endure that condition 
of things very long unless special efforts were made 
to interest her mind with work or amusement in- 
doors. She was one of a quartet of beautiful singers, 
and her minister. Dr. Ely, carried the tenor. She 
arranged with him to give a parlor concert and use 
none but old-style hymns and music, intending to 
substitute her mother’s voice for her own after the 
first two pieces were sung. This strategy was a com- 
plete success, but its effects were only temporary. 
The fact is, Mrs. Quinby was homesick; but expe- 
rience had taught her that such trouble was of the 
mind, not the body. Charles and Ida w^ere much in 
her thoughts and conversation, and she could not help 
thinking of the happy home she had left behind her. 
It was very many years since she had been so faraway, 
and to assimilate her feelings to new situations had 


254 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

been no part of her business or experience. She had 
really never done it, and did not see how any one 
could do it. Fortunately, Mr. Drayton was a philos- 
opher, and fully comprehending her situation he 
clieerfully laid his business aside, as far as possible, 
and spent much of his time in the house devoting his 
attention to her. She really felt that the utmost 
kindness was shown her, but, after all, gloomy, smoky, 
noisy Bristol was not her beautiful Auburn, nor 
Drayton’s spacious residence her own house and 
home. Helen saw that this lonesomeness was grow- 
ing upon her, and she proposed that her mother take 
a trip to Auburn, stay a few days, see how the chiU 
dren prospered, and return. She replied : 

“No; I came here to spend at least three months 
and I shall do so — unless I peg out altogether.” 

It was with mingled pain and delight that Helen 
saw that her mother was fighting bravely to keep 
about, the like of which she had never witnessed 
before. Mr. Drayton pitied her, and yet admired 
her resolution. 

“I could help her out of this,” he said, “if the 
sun would dry off the road a little, so that we could 
drive around the country ; this sort of weather is 
enough to make any one feel gloomy — I feel that 
way myself.” 

One evening he invited in some of his most jovial 
associates, and she was momentarily interested in the 
queer stories they told. Helen went with her to a 


Susan on a Visit to hee Daughtee. 255 

prayer-meeting, but slie thought the exercises very 
dull. 

The most of one afternoon she spent on a couch, 
and at bed-time she could barely help herself to her 
room. As she left she paused and said to Helen : 

“ You need not be afraid that I shall be sick, for I 
have learned to distinguish sharply between mental 
depression and bodily disease.” 

After a while all was quiet, but about one o’clock 
there was a lively stir in the Drayton mansion. A 
doctor was sent for, but not for Mrs. Quinby ; 
and at fifteen minutes to three to the Draytons was 
born a son weighing eight pounds and six ounces. 
AYhen Mrs. Quinby was wakened from a dreamy, 
troubled sleep, and the announcement of this happy 
event made to her, instantly she bounced out of bed, 
put on a wrapper, and in a moment was by tlie bed- 
side of her daughter and taking a first look at a 
grandchild. Her daughter was so serene and happy, 
and the child so fair and bright, that Mrs. Quinby 
forgot that she ever had had a trouble. She flew 
about the house as lively as a girl, nor thought again 
of sleep that night. Said Helen : 

“ Mother, do you know what you are doing ? Last 
niglit you could hardly get to bed, you were so nearly 
sick ; now you are as lively as a cricket.” 

‘‘Yes, but a mountain has been taken off my 
mind since then, and I feel like shouting and giving 
thanks. Can you, Mr. Drayton, get into fhe tele- 


256 Sickness as a Profession. 

graph office and send a message to Charles and 
Ida?” 

‘‘ As soon as morning comes I will do so, and tell 
them also how jubilant you are as a grandmother; 
do you think they will be jealous ? ” 

“ If they are, let them be so to their hearts’ content.” 

During the day Mrs. Quinby waited on Helen and 
the babe with the most assiduous care, without a 
thought of weariness. 

All had the satisfaction of seeing the mother and 
child do finely. Mr. Drayton’s parents, and a sister, 
Julia, came in during the day with their congratula- 
tions. The grandfather especially felt proud that the 
family name was to be perpetuated. 

In less than two weeks the mother was on her feet 
again caring for her child, which all callers said was 
growing nicely and looked “ exactly like its father.” 

At last the roads were settled, the weather fine, 
and the long-dreamed-of rides about the country 
became a reality. As Bristol w^as the center of a 
large coal and iron country, Mr. Drayton in his 
drives visited the mines which stocked the immense 
furnaces in the valley. As Mrs. Quinby compared 
Bristol with the woodchuck holes, as she called the 
entrances into the ground in which the miners liv^ed, 
she thought it quite a roomy place. She had from a 
distance many times watched the fires of the furnaces, 
and instinctively recoiled from their lurid appearance, 
especially as seen by night. 


Susan on a Visit to her Daughter. 257 

“ The coal, then, which feeds those fires comes out 
of those holes, does it ? ” she inquired. 

Having now no cares on her mind, Mrs. Quinby 
felt a desire to see the inside of those immense roll- 
ing-mills, and Mr. Drayton told her to set a day and 
he would see her through them. 

“ Well, why not to-morrow ? ” 

“Just as good a time as any, and we will get a 
warm dinner in a neighboring saloon and take the 
whole day for it.” 

These explorers went first among the acres of ore, 
lime, coke, and coal, and Mr. Drayton fully explained 
that department. The smelting furnace was next ex- 
amined, and thus the order of the work was followed 
till they reached the department where iron rails for 
railroads were turned out at the rate of one every 
two minutes. From here he went to tho nail depart- 
ment, and in this w’ork Mrs. Quinby was much in- 
terested. She was helped to a seat and watched the 
operations for a long time. When she arose she 
found herself a little tired, and signified a wish to 
return home. The evening conversation shifted back 
and forth between the baby and the iron-works. 

“ You have not seen half there is there,” said 
Helen, “ and you must go again, and I will go with 
you, though I have already spent more than a week 
in those establishments.” 

“ I thought coming back that the job was not half 

done, and that I must spend another day there.” 

17 


258 Sickness as a Profession. 

Mrs. Quinbj became greatly interested in the 
miners and half-naked, sooty workmen at the fur- 
naces, and at first it seemed queer to her that they 
should wear woolen shirts, if any. 

“ Do you suppose,” she inquired of Mr. Drayton, 
“ that they are as miserable as they appear to be? ” 

“ They are not at all miserable ; the appearance is 
only in your eye. Charley could not hire one of 
these miners to do a day’s work on his farm at any 
reasonable price. When they look about the country 
and see men at work in the hot sun hoeing corn, or 
cutting grass, or plowing, they feel sorry for them, 
and wish that all people could be miners and be as 
happy as they are. And those black fellows at the 
furnaces, half naked and apparently half cooked by 
those terrible fires, are as happy a class of men as 
lives in the city. They are in the main good, honest 
people, take good care of their families, and fill the 
amen corners in all the churches. There are two 
Welsh local preachers here ; one works in a mine and 
the other in a rolling mill, and when it is known that 
either of them is to preach the churcli is crowded. 
I will keep a lookout for such an occasion, for I want 
you should hear them.” 

The weather was now very pleasant, and it was 
only two weeks after this that Mrs. Drayton, her 
mother, and Bridget, with the baby-wagon, started to 
see the rolling-mills again. 

“ Let us not try to take in too much to-day,” said 


Susan on a Yisit to her Daughter. 259 

Mrs. Quinby ; “ there will be yet other days; but let 
us take time and get a good understanding of every 
thing as we pass along.” 

‘‘ All right, mother ; we can spend a week here as 
well as not.” 

This time they started in at the factory where 
bolts, burrs, rivets, and screws are manufactured, but 
soon passed into the room where nail-kegs are made. 
It was amusing to see a coarse pine block transformed 
in two minutes into a keg and sent to the packing- 
room. For a long time the ladies sat and watched 
the huge shears cut up heavy bars of iron into short 
pieces, as a lady would cut pieces of calico with her 
scissors. As Mrs. Quinby saw the hot rods of iron 
dart through the grooves between the rollers she 
could think of nothing but the fiery serpents she had 
read of in the Scriptures. She never wearied in 
watching the operations of the puddling mill. 

After a while these operations became a little mo- 
notonous to the baby, and in his own right he put in 
some claims upon his mother’s attention. 

Mrs. Drayton,” said the head man, “ here is my 
office, and if your little fellow wants a nap he can 
have the use of a lounge there as well as not — the 
music of the mills will, I think, lull him to sleep.” 

With an appetite fully satisfied the boy was soon 
asleep and left in Bridget’s care. 

“ This,” she said, “ will give me a bit of a chance 
to look around.” 


260 Sickness as a Profession. 

‘‘But,” said the mother, “you must not go out of 
the hearing of his voice should he wake.” 

“ No danger of that, ma’am ; one would have to 
get a good bit off not to hear him.” 

Bridget’s remark, heard bj the foreman and Mrs. 
Quinbj, elicited a hearty laugh. 

While Helen was in the office caring for her 
child Mrs. Quinby was busy questioning the foreman 
particularly in regard to the workmen, and she was 
pleased to see that his statements accorded exactly 
with Mr. Drayton’s account. Her pity gave way to 
admiration of their courageous, , stalwart manliness. 
She looked with a sentiment of admiration upon 
those sooty, brawny arms and naked muscular 
shoulders, as they handled the hot iron. 

“ Those men,” she said, “ fear nothing, nor would 
they shrink from any difficulty.” 

Her ideas of personal force and self-control seemed 
to have been greatly enlarged. 

As their tour of observation continued Mrs. Quinby 
often remarked : 

“ Drayton and I passed along here before, but I did 
not see this.” 

“ No,” said Helen, “ and you may go all through 
this vast establishment a dozen times and you will 
meet something new on each visit. It requires a 
big establishment to make a shingle nail or a carpet 
tack.” 

“Sure enough.” 


Susan on a Visit to her Daughter. 261 

At four of the clock the smelting furnace was to 
be opened, the slag run off by itself, then the molten 
iron run into long channels made in the sand, and 
this operation was to be the last of the day’s sight- 
seeing. About this time Mr. Drayton joined the 
company, but his first inquiry referred to the where- 
abouts of the boy, as he saw the cab was empty and 
Bridget one of the spectators. He could not be satis- 
fied till he had peered into the office, and there two 
full black eyes greeted his own and a smile of recog- 
nition played about two dimpled cheeks. What 
did Drayton care then for furnaces and rolling-mills ? 
With his boy in his arms he proudly strode forth and 
joined the company, with an air which seemed to say, 
“I don’t see how you can get along without this 
young man.” 

Soon the furnace commenced spouting its cataract 
of fire, and the river of lava commenced its course. 
After a while the skilled workman saw that the slag, 
then supposed to be worthless, was exhausted, and 
arrangements were made to secure the molten iron. 
The fountain is tapped again, and the heavy white 
liquid iron falls upon the ground and runs off in 
sandy channels prepared for it. 

‘‘ How do they separate the slag from the iron ? ” 
inquired Mrs. Quinby. 

Mr. Drayton said : 

“ Iron ore, more or less heavily charged with oxy- 
gen, is put into the top of this stack ; a large quan- 


262 Sickness as a Profession. 

tity of limestone is put in at the same time, also coke 
as fuel, and the heat is kept up at a high rate till the 
whole is melted, the oxygen united with the iron is 
liberated, and, as its affinity for calcium of the lime 
is stronger than its affinity for iron, the iron is aban- 
doned and left comparatively pure. The slag thus 
formed is lighter than iron, rises to the top, and is 
drawn off first, as you see here ; then the iron is se- 
cured, as you see on this side.” 

As the Drayton group returned home that night 
Helen said to hei*self : Another good day for 
mother.” While attending to the babe in the office 
she noticed that her mother was carrying on an ani- 
mated conversation with the manager, and she lieard 
enough of it to know that she was seeking to quiet 
her anxieties with regard to the workmen. She had 
felt that Mr. Drayton’s account of their contented- 
ness and prosperity was a little rose-colored, and 
needed confirmation. “ Then I needn’t pity them 
any more,” was one of her remarks distinctly heard. 

Mrs. Quinhy had become very much at home in the 
family of her daughter, and seemed to be entirely 
happy. The time had passed for her to return to 
Auburn, but she had made no reference to it. Her 
conversation was far less about Charles and Ida than 
it had been, and apparently she had dismissed them 
from her mind as objects of care. 


Mrs. Quinby the Sage and Philosopher. 263 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MRS. QUINBY THE SAGE AND PHILOSOPHER. 

“ And he who meditates on others’ woes 
Shall in that meditation lose his own.” — Timocles. 

After tea Mr. Drayton drew from his pocket a 
letter to Mrs. Quinby from Auburn, which he had 
carried during the day, having forgotten to deliver it. 
The scolding he received for keeping so precious a 
document so long he took patiently, as he knew he 
deserved it. After reading the letter, which was the 
joint production of Charles and Ida, then reading it 
again to Helen and Mr. Drayton, she said : 

“ That letter is about as good as a visit to Auburn, 
and I don’t see why I should be in any particular 
hurry to return.” 

‘‘ I think,” said Mr. Drayton, “ that you are well 
enough off as you are. You have not seen the half 
of Bristol yet.” 

To be reminded by Charles and Ida that her al- 
lotted time to stay in Bristol was up, and that they 
were watching impatiently for her return, seemed to 
move her not the least. The detailed account they 
gave of life at home interested her very much, but 
the only response she made was that it was best to let 
well enough alone. Said Helen : 


264 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ Mother, if j’oii are not afraid those children will 
get the reins into their own hands and feel that they 
belong there — that they are the bosses of your prem- 
ises — you would better spend the summer here.” 

Yes, and winter too,” said Mr. Drayton ; ‘‘ for it 
is not near as cold down here in this valley as it is out 
there on those Auburn hills.” 

“ In regard to the bossing business,” said Mrs. 
Quinby, “we have had a deal of sentimentalism on 
that subject which I don’t think amounts to much. 
What I really want is to slip my neck out of the yoke 
entirely, and throw upon Charles and his wife all the 
responsibilities of home. No good will come to them 
by being tied to my apron-strings. That without let 
or hinderance they .may get their hands and heads and 
hearts fully into the business of making a living is 
one of the reasons why I linger here so long and so 
contentedl}". When 1 left them to themselves I gave 
neither a word of advice.” 

“ But, mother,” said Helen, “ do you think you 
would be happy there and see Ida mistress of your 
own house ? ” 

“ That is exactly what I want,” said Mrs. Quinby. 
“ There will always be room enough for me, and I 
have no more desire to manage things there than I 
have here. I want Ida to be to her home all that you 
are to Drayton, and feel the same responsibility and 
freedom. This cannot be unless she is left to herself 
for a while to manage things in her own way. It 


Mrs. Quinby t^e Sage and Philosopher. 265 

[would not be well for her own mother to interfere 
or exercise any supervision over her, and I am sure 
that I shall refuse to do it.” 

“ When you go home,” said Helen, ‘‘ you will find 
many changes, and some things will be different from 
what you would have them ; do you think you can be 
reconciled to these changes ? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Mrs. Quinby ; “ they will not 
afflict me in the least. I now have only a curiosity 
to see what the young ones have done. Queer ways 
will excite my merriment, and nothing more. I am 
not in the least afraid but that I shall have at my 
command all I desire to care for. After I leave here 
I shall make them a visit of a few days or weeks, then 
visit other places, and I may spend the summer gad- 
ding about.” 

It was evident that this strain of thought was not 
the ebullition of the moment, but the result of the 
most mature reflection. It was a surprise to Mrs. 
Drayton, and she was not a little anxious in regard to 
its outcome. She had hoped to keep her mother on 
her feet by keeping her mind busy with Jier domestic 
duties and responsibilities, with the help of more 
public interests. She saw, however, that if her 
mother took to traveling, visiting, and interesting 
herself- in church matters, the world, society, and 
business, she was safe enough — as safe as if she car- 
ried the responsibilities of a family. She attached 
the greatest importance to her mother’s declaration 


2G6 Sickness as a Profession. 

that she had learned to discriminate sharply between 
mental depressions and bodily ailments. Looking at 
the matter in the light of these facts Helen renewed 
her demand that her mother remain contented where 
she was, and give the question of going home no 
more thought at present. 

The whole question of the Quinby family was thus 
presented to Mr. Drayton in a new light, and he re- 
solved that his mother-in-law should not leave Bristol 
that summer, if he could prevent it. This determi- 
nation, however, he communicated to no one but his 
wife, as he thought it best to allow matters to drift 
along in their own way, as they had found so delight- 
ful a channel. Helen, seeing the form her mother’s 
views had taken, used every opportunity to confirm 
her in them, and tried to draw from her a promise 
that she would spend the year in Bristol. But she 
said : 

“ Ho. I will not bind myself to any thing nor to 
any body. I have my liberty and I intend to keep 
it.” 

“ Yes, mother, you should feel at liberty to come 
and go as you please,” said Helen. 

“ That’s exactly what IVe settled down upon. A 
more happy woman than I am can’t be found ; blest 
in my children, blest in their marriage, I have much 
to be thankful for, and nothing to complain of. Au- 
burn and all pertaining to it is as sweet to me as ever, 
and yet I am not by any means bound to it. It is a 


Mrs. Quinby the Sage and Philosopher. 267 

joy, but only the chief one among others. I would 
be very much pleased to visit the place, but I think 
it better to stay away and let those children have their 
way a little longer.” 

After Mrs. Quinby retired that night Mr. Drayton 
remarked to Helen : 

“ Your mother appears to be in rather an exultant 
mood to-night.” 

“ Yes, and I am not sure that I understand her 
case. She seems to be undergoing a complete mental 
transformation. Is her mind, for the first time in 
twenty years, taking the throne and swaying the 
scepter ? ” 

I can’t say ; but did you ever know more good 
sense to be put into a few words than when she spoke 
of Charles and Ida starting rightly in. the world ? ” 

I was never more delightfully surprised, and she 
must have thought those mattei’S over a great deal. 
Peally, mother seems hardly to be the woman she was 
two years ago. I' think the case is this : at last she 
has got out of self and entered the outside world of 
humanity, and she finds the change delightful.” 

The last of June Mrs. Quinby was still at her 
daughter’s, and said nothing about returning to Au- 
burn. She had become active in the church, and ac- 
cepted the responsibilities of a Sunday-school teacher. 
Slie found pleasure in improving her opportunities 
to form many new acquaintances. 

But, as might have been expected, pleasures never 


268 Sickness as a Peofession. 

remain long at flood-tide, and Mrs. Quinbj’s expe- 
rience was no exception. For three evenings in suc- 
cession Mr. Drayton had extended his rides about the 
country too far, and on his return had driven two 
miles through bottom lands, after dark, on which rested 
a malarious fog. To such an atmosphere Mrs. Quinby 
was wholly unaccustomed, and, as she took a slight 
cold, she felt immediately the effects of the exposure. 
The next day she remained in the house, and as night 
came on was smitten with a chill. A doctor would 
have been called had it not been for her protestations. 
The chill was followed by a high fever, and without 
consulting her Mr. Drayton called in Dr. AVebber 
about daylight. After examining the case the doctor 
said to Mr. Drayton : 

“ The lady has a rather severe attack of malarial 
fever, but if her constitution is fairly firm and vigor- 
ous I think I can head it off.” 

After some consultation with Mrs. Drayton it was 
decided to make thorough work with it on the start. 
The treatment was rather severe, and for about two 
days Mrs. Quinby was really sick. Mr. Drayton was 
not willing to take any risks, and wrote to Charles, 
informing him of the facts in the case. He and Ida 
arrived on the next train. He found his mother 
convalescent, and the doctor master of the situation. 
As they found her in no mood to return with them 
to Auburn they remained but a single day. They 
did not learn much that was new of their mother’s 


Mrs. QuInby tMe Sage And Philosopher. 269 

experience in Bristol, as kind letters had kept them 
well informed. During her short sickness Helen 
spent two nights in succession by her bedside, and 
Mr. Drayton kept the doctor in the house nearly all 
the time till the crisis was past. As he was leaving 
Charley laid down money on the table to meet ex- 
penses, but Drayton refused to take it, saying, “ This 
is my business.” 

When her fever was at its height Mrs. Quinby said 
to Helen : 

‘‘ I suppose this is what you call sickness.” 

Yes, mother; the malaria and the doctor’s medi- 
cine together have made you very sick, but we are 
sure you will be better to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Quinby was out of bed and on her feet again 
at the earliest moment, and some days sooner than 
Helen thought was prudent ; but she seemed to have 
a horror of remaining in bed or of being under the 
doctor’s care any longer than was necessaiy. She had 
been about and on tlie street but a few days when 
Mr. Henry B. Kimberly came into the office of Mr. 
Drayton and requested a private interview. Retiring 
to the rear office and shutting the door, Mr. Drayton 
said : 

“ You can now say, sir, in confidence all you de- 
sire.” 

“ Y^ou will see that my business is strictly confi- 
dential when I ask to know the name and residence of 
the lady who was with your wdfe some weeks ago 


270 Sickness as a Profession. 

looking through the iron establishment of which I am 
manager.” 

“ Her name is Quinbj, and she is my wife’s 
mother.” 

“ And a widow, I believe ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. She has been a widow about three 
years.” 

“ I saw but little of her at that time, but have since 
seen her at church and met her on the street, and she 
strikes me as a lady of character, and it would be 
agreeable to me to become more thoroughly ac- 
quainted with her. Is she still stopping at your 
house ? ” 

She is.” 

“ Though you know me by sight, permit me to state 
that my wife died two years ago ; I have one child 
living — a son — married, and for these two years I 
have found a home with him. I have for fifteen 
years been foreman in McGahns & Fritz’s iron-works 
at a good salary. I have a ^ood, comfortable resi- 
dence on Maple Street, now unoccupied, but furnished 
in all its departments, and other property and casli to 
the amount of fifteen thousand dollars. My modest 
demands are more than met by my salary, and I feel 
that the time has come when I must have a compan- 
ion and live in my own house.” 

“Well, Mr. Kimberl}^, I will talk this matter over 
with my wife, and whether any thing more need be 
said on the subject will depend largely upon her judg- 


Mks. Quinby the Sage and Philosopher. 271 

inent. I have long known you, sir, to be a gentle- 
man of the highest respectability, and I shall be 
happy to introduce you to my wife ; and if it will suit 
your convenience to be present in this room at eight 
o’clock this evening I will do so.” 

“ I can be present at that time, God willing.” 

As Mr. Drayton went in to dinner that day it was 
noticed that a broad but mysterious grin was at play 
about his face. All noticed the twinkle of his eye, 
but none could read its signilicance. After dinner 
he quietly said to his wife that in the course of a half 
hour he would be glad to have her step into tlie of- 
fice. Helen did not wait ten minutes before appear- 
ing in the ofiice, as she intuitively suspected that tlie 
significance of the silent merriment she had witnessed 
would be revealed to her. She was soon seated in 
the private ofiice and the door shut and locked, and 
then in few words was made known to her all 
the particulars of Mr. Kimberly’s visit. Helen 
said : 

“ Then Kimberly is the name of the gentleman 
who was so kind to my babe and entertaining to 
mother, and he is now making inquiry after her ? ” 
That seems to be the state of the case.” 

“ Well, he is a good-looking man, smart and kind- 
hearted.” 

“ Yes ; what do you think his age is ? ” 

“ Hot far from fifty — possibly sixty. Mother was 
forty-two a few days ago.” 


272 


Sickness as a Profession. 


“ What do you suppose your mother thinks of 
marrying again ? ” 

“ I can’t say. I have never known her to refer to 
the subject, nor have I ever heard any body joke her 
about it.” 

“ From what I have said to Mr. Kimberly he will 
expect to meet you here at eight of the clock, and 
his future will be determined largely by your ad- 
vice.” 

“ Shall I say any thing to him about mother’s pe- 
culiar sickness in the past ? ” 

I don’t know ; but should judge not at present.” 

“ I mean, should it be done under any circum- 
stances ? ” 

I think your mother has completely recovered 
from her sickness, and is all the sounder for her expe- 
rience.” 

“ So do I, and should she marry him she will tell 
him all about it sometime ; and, if the case becomes 
serious, what will be the harm of my telling him all 
about it now ? ” 

“ I can’t see any.” 

“ If my judgment is to influence him in the least I 
shall feel better if I tell him the whole story.” 

Then by all means do it now.” 

“ But, really, wouldn’t it be nice to have mother 
pleasantly situated, and living here in town ! ” 

“ If she thinks of marrying at all I do not see how 
a more desirable opportunity could present itself.” 


Mrs. Quinby the Sage and Philosopher. 273 

“Henry Drayton, shall we favor and help along 
this project or not ? ” 

“We will as far as to open the way for them to 
become acquainted with each other, and no farther. 
Hot a word of advice must we speak.” 

“ That is my judgment, and then all I’esponsibility 
will be on them, and none on us.” 

“ And they are old enough to bear it.” 

Helen was much with her mother that afternoon, 
waiting, thinking, and watching for an opportunity to 
sound her mother’s heart in some way on this subject 
of marriage. A new element, fraught with grave con- 
sequences, had sprung up in her household and she 
was anxious to handle it wisely. Finally she said : 

“ Mother, do you remember the gentleman who so 
kindly opened the door of his office to me that I 
might the more conveniently care for Henry” (for so 
the boy had been named) “ when we were, looking 
through the iron establishment ? ” 

“ Yes ; why ? ” 

“What did you think of him?” 

“ I thought he looked after you as if he thought 
you were some young widow he was glad to help.” 

“But, mother, he called me Mrs. Drayton, and of 
course he knew me, though I did not know him. Yet 
I had seen him at church. I thought he gave very 
special attention to you.” 

“ He is not much, if any, over fifty, and he is not 

fool enough to care to be more than polite to an old 
18 


274 Sickness as a Pkofession. 

woman like me. He was probably thinking that 
Drayton would pass off some of these days.” 

“O nonsense,. mother ! Bat he appeared to me to 
be a generous, gentlemanly, kind-hearted man, and 
that is the point on which I simply want your judg- 
ment. I don’t suppose the man walks the ground 
tliat you would marry ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“I have never heard you refer to the subject in 
any way.” 

“Why would it not be as nice for me to have a 
home as for you and Charley ? ” 

“If such a situation w^ould be more agreeable to 
you than the liberty you boasted of and praised so 
highly a few days since, it would. Your feelings in 
regard to the matter should be your only law.” 

“ Ah, nonsense ! What are you talking about ? 
You must be foolish to think that under any cir- 
cumstance I would marry any man that lives. I 
presume I could marry if I were willing to take 
on my hands some old, decrepit, broken-down, bank- 
rupt man wdio wanted some one to support him and 
care for him a few years and then give him a decent 
burial, but I am not in that business. But, as I told 
you the other day, I am well enough off as I am. I 
feel at home in your house, and then if there be any 
luxuiy in calling a home my own I can do that. I 
have of every thing all I need, with liberty and 
health to enjoy it, and can go and come as I please ; 


Mks. Quinby the Sage and Philosophek. 275 

and what put this marrying project into your head is 
more than I can imagine.” 

“Now, mother, just check yourself a moment 
while I speak. I was thinking of the kindness of 
die gentleman at the iron-mills, and simply wanted 
o know what you thought of him, and the thought 
of marrying has either scared you or you have run 
away with it, and I don’t know which.” 

“Well, if you have got a man in the market trot 
him out, and that will help you to a decision.” 


276 


Sickness as a Pkofession. 


CHAPTEK XXIIL 

THE LAST CHANaB. 

“ Woman 1 blest partner of our joys and woes ! 

Even in the darkest hour of earthly ill 
Untarnish’d yet thy fond affection glows, 

Throbs with each pulse, and beats with every thrill.” 

— Yamoyden. 

Helen never attempted any project in which she 
was more completely baffled than in this effort to 
sound her mother’s heart on the question of matri- 
mony ; and at tlie same time the mother’s strategy 
completely uncovered her own position — for Helen 
not only a defeat, but a perfect rout. 

Promptly at eight o’clock Mr. Kimberly was at the 
office of Mr. Drayton, and in a few moments Mrs. 
Drayton appeared and was introduced. 

Kiwherly, 1 suppose, madam, your husband has 
rendered unnecessary an introduction of the business 
of this interview. 

Mrs. Drayton. He has spoken to me of some in- 
quiries you have made of him in regard to my moth- 
er, and informed me that he had referred the whole 
matter to my judgment. I suppose this interview 
has for its object the wisdom of an introduction to 
her with the view of a further acquaintance. 


The Last Change. 


277 


Kimherly. Tliat is it exactly. I am sufficiently 
well known personally to your husband and by repu- 
tation in this city to enable him to form an opinion 
of the propriety of this interview with the object 
contemplated. 

Helen. My husband speaks of you, Mr. Kimberly, 
as a worthy man, and I have no objection to the for- 
mation of the acquaintance you desire. 

Kimberly. You may remember caring for your 
babe, some time ago, in my office while visiting the 
iron mills. 

Helen. Your polite attention at that time is by no 
means forgotten. 

Kimberly. While your mother was waiting out- 
side she asked a great manj^ questions in regard to 
the dirty, rough-looking workmen, and expressed for 
them the greatest sympathy. It was the regard she 
felt for them tliat impressed me that she carried with 
her the heart of a woman, and it is first of all because 
woman has a heart that man wants her as a com- 
panion. 

Helen. I don’t care to say much in regard to moth- 
er till after you have met her, and possibly then it 
will not be necessary for me to say any thing. 

Drayton. I think the better way for all parties 
is that no formal introduction take place. Mother 
knows nothing of this interview, and it will be as 
well if she never knows. You and I have business 
together sometimes, and if we have none now we can 


278 Sickness as a Profession. 

make all we need. Come to my house to-morrow 
night, and ostensibly the call will be on me. Mother 
will be present, and we can let matters take their own 
course and the issue will take care of itself. The 
little fraud we shall practice will not, I think, disturb 
our ethics.” 

Mrs. Drayton. Yes ; there is policy in wooing as 
well as in war, and the suggestion made by Mr. 
Drayton will enable you both, but especially mother, 
to act freely yourselves. 

Thus this interview closed, and the parties sepa- 
rated — Kimberly hopeful, Helen anxious and dis- 
turbed, but Drayton full of mischief. 

After dinner next day Helen said to her mother : 

“ I am expecting a call this afternoon from Mrs. 
Lawton, and her husband will come after her in the 
evening, and you know she is one of our “society” 
ladies.” 

“ Of course, then, she will be here to tea.” 

“ Certainly.” 

Mrs. Quinby took the hint, and on the arrival of 
the company her toilet was arranged exactly as she 
thought would be agreeable to her daughter’s taste. 
About eight o’clock the door-bell rang as if the hand 
of a business man had hold of it, and Mr. Kimberly 
was soon by a servant-girl ushered into the parlor, 
where he was introduced to Mrs. Lawton, and wdiere 
he recognized Mrs. Quinby and Mrs. Drayton. After 
some talk with Mr. Drayton in a low tone in a business 


The Last Change. 


279 


way, supposed to be about some law point, he turned 
to Mrs. Drayton, and inquired after the health of her 
boy. Conversation flowed along freely for some time, 
Mrs. Lawton participating in her peculiarly animated 
manner, till Mrs. Quinby changed the current by 
saying : 

“ Since I was in your iron establishment I have 
often thought of those rough-looking, sooty men who 
were baking themselves before those awful flres. I 
still don’t see how they can be happy.” 

“ I am not surprised at that, Mrs. Quinby, for in 
appearance they are unlike any other class of men 
you ever saw ; but not one of them would exchange 
places with a farmer or a carpenter. They do honest, 
useful work, they are regularly paid, they are happy 
in their homes, most of them are members of some 
church and active in the Sunday-school. You passed 
that day a man who is a preacher the people very 
much like to hear.” 

“ So Mr. Drayton says.” 

“Yes, mother, but you thought my statement 
needed confirmation,” said Mr. Drayton. 

“ Well, then, the reputation of lawyers for truthful- 
ness should be better,” responded Mrs. Quinby. 

Drayton as well as others enjoyed the laugh which 
this remark elicited at his expense. 

“ But do they get time to read and improve their 
minds ? ” inquired Mrs. Quinby. 

“ Quite as much as laboring men in general.” 


2 so Sickness as a Profession. 

“Are they truthful and honest in their dealings?” 

“ In this respect they will not suffer by comparison 
with any other class of men.” 

“Well, I am glad to know these things, for I shall 
feel free to allow my sympathies to go out in other 
directions.” 

“ And there are enough who need them.” 

At this juncture Mr. Lawton appeared, and urgent 
business made it necessary for him immediately to 
escort his wife home. Mr. Drayton had in his office 
some unfinislied business which demanded his atten- 
tion ; he excused himself and retired. 

Helen now comes to the front, and brings her fine 
conversational powers into play, and really fresh ani- 
mation enters the scene. Topics take a wider range, 
and at every turn the daughter supports the mother 
and sets her off to the best advantage. She had taken 
a liking to Mr. Kimberly, and secretly wished that 
her mother might be favorably impressed with him. 
A half hour or so passed on, and feeling that the 
object of his visit was accomplished Mr. Kimberly 
retired; but seeing, as he passed, Drayton still in 
his office he called there. But a few moments had 
passed before Mrs. Drayton appeared. Mr. Kimberly 
said : 

“ I do not hesitate at all to say that I am much 
pleased with Mrs. Quinby. I only hope that she re- 
gards herself as within matrimonial limits, and that I 
have made a- favorable impression upon her mind.” 


The Last Change. 


281 


Helen, I know that as a gentleman you have done 
this, but whether within matrimonial limits or not 
you can judge as well as myself. I tried to sound 
mother on that question yesterday, but was never so 
baffled in an attempt to do any thing as then.” 

Kimberly. I am prepared for a further advance as 
soon as I can see how and in what direction it can 
wisely be made. 

Helen. Will you permit me to say to mother what 
I may judge it wise to say in regard to the interest 
you take in her? I ask this question because, if I 
tind her favorably inclined, I have something to say 
to you, before matters go too far, that I don’t care to 
say now. 

Kimherly. You are perfectly free to act in all 
things pertaining to this business as you may judge 
best. 

The next day Helen waited a long time — till in the 
afternoon — for her mother to make some kind of al- 
lusion to the party of the evening before, but she 
waited in vain. As she thought the subject over she 
determined that if she had to introduce it her mother 
should not slip through her hands, leaving her in un- 
certainty, as she so easily did the day before. While 
playing on the piano she suddenly stopped in the 
midst of a tune and, turning around on the stool, said : 

‘‘O, mother! what do you think? When I went 
into the office last evening I found Mr. Kimberly 
'there, ahd'lie and Drayton were talking about you.” 


282 Sickness as a Profession. 

‘‘Well, I suppose they wanted to talk about some- 
thing of interest, and one that was on the elevated 
plane of their ability.” 

“ But he asked a good many questions about you, 
as if he had some special interest in you.” 

“ If the subject we talk about is not interesting, we 
must put interest into it if we can.” 

“Well, if he asks me any more questions about 
you, especially such as I can’t answer, I shall send 
him directly to you.” 

“Very well; he appears to be a gentleman, and I 
shall be happy to see him at any time. I always en- 
joyed the society of intelligent gentlemen.” 

“ Very well, then, I will tell him that Mrs. Quinby 
is ready to receive a visit.” 

“I do not know why I should not be always ready 
to receive cordially any of your friends.” 

Here Helen gave the contest up — her mother was 
too much for her at every turn ; but as the door was 
not by any means closed against Mr. Kimberly she 
felt sure that his visit would be well received, and 
she now looked forward with anxiety and some so- 
licitude to the interview which she was to have with 
him the next day. 

As usual, this delicate conference was held in the 
private office of Mr. Drayton. After describing the 
bantering and non-committal st^de of her mother, 
she said : 

“ The way is open for you to see Mrs. Quinby, and 


The Last Change. 


283 


she will expect a visit from you ; but before matters 
proceed auy further candor and my own peace of 
mind demand that I make a statement of some mat- 
ters which you should consider. My mother was an 
only child, was reared tenderly and indulgently, was 
well educated, and married at eighteen, and in less than 
three years both her living children were born. Soon 
after this she became an invalid, and so continued 
for six years, costing father a deal of labor, trouble 
and money for doctors’ bills. Finally, father learned 
that she was taking bread pills and colored water for 
medicine, and he became angry, had the fact made 
known to mother, and the doctor then told her that 
her trouble was not of the body, but of the mind. 
Mother then became very angry at both the doctor 
and father, but he cleared the house of both doctors 
and medicines, and there was a great time. I was 
just old enough to notice a little of the trouble, and 
at the time I left home father told me all about it. 
He tenderly gave mother’s case the most earnest 
consideration, and found that her trouble was selfish- 
ness — self-conceit, self-indulgence, thinking of self, 
caring for self — in short, that mind had turned 
away from all outward interests and in on self, and 
that she had become self-devouring. Mental lassi- 
tude and mental depressions, often deep and long- 
continued, were the results. Of course, such action 
of the mind produced its effects upon the body, 
and then she felt that she was sick, and needed a 


284: Sickness as a Profession. 

doctor and medicine. The particulars of tliis kind 
of a life I cannot describe ; were all written they 
would make volumes — volumes of misery to mother, 
and of misery she caused othei-s. Father was as firm 
as a rock in excluding doctors and all kinds of medi- 
cine from the house, and at the same time he treated 
mother very tenderly, never speaking to her an un- 
kind word, and doing all in his power to interest her 
mind in something besides herself. He procured 
books for her to read, kept a horse and carriage for 
her special accommodation, had party gatherings at 
his house, and went with her wherever she would 
go, and after two years’ perseverance in this policy 
he achieved a complete triumph. After this they 
rode much about the country, and sought the most 
cheerful society, and father would not allow any body 
about the house who had any thing to detail in re- 
gard to aches and pains. During father’s sickness 
no wife could have been more assiduous in her atten- 
tions, or more patient and devoted than mother. 
Four nights in succession she watched with him, and 
in the meantime got only little snatches of sleep 
by day. Bravely she bore up under the shock of 
his death, and probably my presence did something 
to support her while I visited at the house. But 
home duties called me to Bristol, and after I left 
mother became poorly again. Unfortunately, she 
was visited by some women who are all aches and 
pains, and they could talk of nothing else. A doctor 


The Last Change. 


285 


and hired girl were procured, and matters became as 
bad as ever. Learning the condition of things, and 
remembering the story of her sickness father had told 
me before I left home, I went there, and with the 
help of my brother Cliarles short work was made of 
the whole matter, and mother was on her feet again, 
and this time she came up seeing the facts in her case 
as she never saw them before. Without entering 
into the details of the case, I am trying to represent 
it at least as bad as it is.” 

“ So I should think,” injected Mr. Drayton. 

“ But now I desire to say, with equal truthfulness 
and emphasis, that for some time past mother lias 
appeared to be another wonHan, completely relieved 
of that tendency to regard as sickness any mental 
depression. Her past infirmity she now sees as 
father saw it, and if there are any words she dreads 
to hear spoken these words are ‘sickness,’ ‘doctors,’ 
and ‘ medicine.’ ” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Drayton, “she had a short time 
aofo an attack of the malarial fever, the result of ex- 
posure along the river bottom at night, as we were 
late coming in from the country, and a braver fight 
than she made I never witnessed. She was out of 
bed at least three days before she should have been. 
I feel sure that mother has outgrown and outlived 
the unfavorable infiuences of her youth, and is firmly 
established on another plane. We have often talked 
these matters over between ourselves, and decided 


286 Sickness as a Peofession. 

that there is nothing further to fear. Justice to you 
called for the first part of this statement, and justice 
to mother requires that I make emphatic the second 
part.” 

As this seemed to be the end of Mrs. Drayton’s 
little speech, Mr. Kimberly said : 

“ Are you sure that your mother now sees the 
true nature of her trouble as your father saw it, and 
as you see it ? ” 

“ I am, for she lias talked freely to Charles and to 
myself about it.” 

‘‘Your mother is safe enough in this matter if she 
has learned to discriminate between mental affections 
and physical derangements, and all the wiser for her 
experience. Your mother’s case is by no means a 
solitary one. I can without any reflection call to 
mind seven cases, and three of them were of men I 
have known, which were very much like your moth- 
ers. Their misfortune was that they had no one to act 
the part your father acted, and that you acted after 
him. Our first impression is that no one would 
think or speak of being sick unless such was really 
the case. There are times when none of us feel well 
in either body or mind, and while some easily glide 
into the conviction that they are sick others refuse to 
be sick, and thus the really sick become well, and 
the well become sick. We are all liable to get into 
the habit of boasting about something, some of one 
thing and some of another, and there are a few 


The Last Change. 


287 


who find their supreme delight in boasting of what 
they liave done, endured, and suffered. Their glory 
consists of the wretchedness and misery through 
which they have passed, and of course they delight 
to talk these matters over and over as a soldier 
does his battles, as they feel that they must excel 
in something. Your father must have been a re- 
markable man, I should judge. His discernment must 
have been as acute as his courage was steady and 
strong.” 

“ But father was actuated by a conscientious sense 
of duty, and duty makes us wondrous strong. Were 
not this so I could not have told you this story.” 

“ I think we have discussed this matter sufficient- 
ly. You may expect before many days shall pass 
away to see me at your house again, and in the 
meantime you can treat the matter in regard to Mrs. 
Quinby as you judge proper.” 

The next day, while passing down Maple Street, 
Mr. Kimberly and Mrs. Quinby met on the side- 
walk just opposite the former’s residence. After 
cordial salutations and the usual remarks about the 
weather, Mr. Kimberly said : 

Are you aware, Mrs. Quinby, that this house is 
richly furnished from garret to cellar, and yet stands 
here without an occupant ? ” 

“I was not. I have no acquaintance on this 
street — was never in this part of the city before.” 

Well, such is the case. Isn’t it a pity ? ” 


2S8 Sickness as a Profession. 

“ It is likely tliat the owner has a better and more 
pleasant residence somewhere else.” 

‘‘ Ko, he has not. This house is mine, and it has 
now stood here empty two years.” 

“ Is it as well for a dwelling to stand empty as to 
be occupied ? ” 

“ It is much better to have it occupied, and I have 
for some time been determined to ask you, at the 
earliest opportunity, to become my wife and its 
mistress.” 

“ From what I have heard of your character and 
your standing in this community, I must say, Mr. 
Kimberly, that your propositions are flattering, and 
are not to be rejected without cause. You must give 
me time to reflect, and I should have much to say 
wliich might give you reason to withdraw your ofler. 
Mine has been a checkered life, with little in it to rec- 
ommend me to any one. Go to Auburn, and after an 
interview with Dr. Simpson, if you desire to see me 
again, drop me a note or call at Drayton’s. I would 
prefer, however, for various reasons, that at present 
there be nothing more than formal calls at their 
house.” 

“ I think, Mrs. Quinby, that a visit to Auburn will 
not be necessary. Whatever it is important for me to 
know you can tell me, and had I not the fullest con- 
fidence in your character for candor and truthfulness 
I should not have made the proposition to you I have. 
By passing down Walnut Street to 806 we will come 


The Last Change. 


289 


to my son’s residence, where I have a suite of rooms, 
and I would be glad to introduce you to him and to 
his wife.” 

‘‘ Very well ; -if the facts in the case are fully ex- 
plained to them I see no impropriety in having an 
interview with you in their parlor.” 

It was a little late when Susan came in that after- 
noon, and she did not give as minute and detailed an 
account of her explorations of Bristol as usual, but 
the fact elicited no remark. 

Ten days passed away, and the Draytons saw 
notliing of Mr. Kimberly, and they thought it a little 
strange that he did not call. Finally he made a short 
formal call and retired. Kot a half dozen words 
passed between him and Mrs. Quinby. Thus three 
months passed away, and the Draytons looked in 
vain for developments of any kind. 

The broad grin wholly left the face of Mr. Drayton. 
Mrs. Drayton said : 

“Well, that will amount to nothing; my story of 
mother’s sickness put a quietus upon it, and I am 
glad of it. Let what will come, we can care for 
mother — others will not do it as well.” 

About the middle of November Mrs. Quinby an- 
nounced her purpose to return to Auburn in January. 
She said to Helen : 

“You must go out shopping with me, as I need 
something to wear. It won’t look well for me to go 

from Bristol to Auburn ragged.” She did not call at 
19 


290 Sickness as a Profession. 

the milliner’s and dress maker’s that day, for the 
necessary business there had been done. 

The fifteenth of December she handed to Helen 
a duly executed quit-claim deed of. her interest in 
the Quinby estate. The farm was to be Charley’s, and 
he was to pay Mrs. Drayton three thousand dollars. 

Not a word of explanation would she give to any 
one of the reasons of her conduct. Drayton said to 
Helen : 

“Your mother seems to be rational enough, but 
should she prove to be a little cranky that deed would 
be good for nothing.” 

Helen noticed that her mother said but little, and 
appeared to be burdened with many thoughts; she 
flattered herself that it all arose from her reluctance 
to leave her pleasant associations in Bristol, and she 
said to her : 

“Mother, it strikes me that the wise thing for you 
to do is to make Auburn a short visit and then come 
back and spend the winter witli me.” 

“I confess I have made some pleasant acquaint- 
ances here, and I should think you might invite in 
some of them to spend an evening with us before I 
leave.” . 

Helen took the suggestion, and made for her mother 
a large and brilliant party. 

Something moved Mr. Drayton to purchase for 
her a fine gold watch and chain, to be presented at 
the party as a surprise gift. 


The Last Change. 


291 


Cliarles and wife were invited to the party, but Ida 
did not attend, and as Charles arrived at an early hour 
it was not thought strange that he and mother spent 
a half hour or so by themselves; but his thoughtful 
and subdued appearance after this interview none 
could understand. Mr. Kimberly was at the party, 
and Helen and Drayton were somewhat surprised to 
see him escort Mrs. Quinby into the parlor at the 
time the watch was to be presented to her. 

As they stood up together, both arrayed in modest 
but rich costume, Helen felt that they were a splen- 
did couple, and she was proud of her mother. Whilst 
the presentation speech was being made by Dr. Ely 
she felt some regret that Mr. Kimberly’s suit had 
miscarried, and was inclined to blame herself as the 
responsible party. 

After handing to Mrs. Quinby the watch. Dr. Ely 
said, “The work of the evening is not yet done;” and 
putting the right hand of Mrs. Quinby into the right 
hand of Mr. Kimberly he spoke words, eliciting re- 
sponses, which, after a short prayer, made it lawful 
and proper for the company to salute the twain as 
Mr. and Mrs. Kimberly. 


THE END. 





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XX. Servant of God, Well Done ! 


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